A Series of Five or More Ficlets
by Demented Amanuensis
Summary: One-shots, written for prompts that were given by fellow fanfic writers. Pairings are SS/HG, SS/HG/LM not exactly a pairing , LM/HG. Mostly humorous.
1. Chapter 1

STIR CRAZY

Size, they say, is not important. What really counts is what you do with it.

This may be true for unimportant things like penises, cars, magic wands and truncheons (spot the word that doesn't belong in the group and explain why) (1), but it certainly isn't a valid statement where stirring rods are concerned.

The importance of the stirring rod's dimensions has got nothing to do with the fact that most potions masters are men, who, according to the Beginner's Guide to Freud, have to compensate for undersized body parts (2). Oh no. The length and girth of a stirring rod determine the impact of its movements on the potion. If you don't believe it, try to brew a simple Pepper-Up with a thicker, longer rod. Or rather, pluck up the courage to sample the finished product. What comes out of not exactly your ears won't exactly be smoke. It doesn't exactly cure your cold either, but you might stop coughing, because coughing and diarrhoea aren't exactly a fortunate combination.

QED – the proportions of a stirring rod are of enormous importance.

Potions masters do have a tendency to take their art and consequently themselves very seriously. They're not fond of jokes made at their expense, and they get very touchy indeed whenever people, especially of the female persuasion, answer the perfectly civil and innocent request 'I need a bigger stirring rod, please' with a snort and a muttered 'I bet you do.'

It is, as Tom Puffett (3) would justly remark, not fair on a man or his rod.

Severus Snape was, in many respects, the archetypal potions master. He despised foolish wand-waving (because, as the Beginner's Guide to Freud would very reasonably point out, have you ever seen a man with two big toes? To which you'd have to reply yes, which goes to show that the Beginner's Guide to Freud isn't a very reliable compendium), he was both proud and jealous of his art, he was reclusive and of a contemplative nature, and he was a patient man. If, that is, people didn't make lewd remarks about stirring rods. But that, too, makes him the embodiment of potions masterdom.

The night of Voldemort's defeat, Snape had survived Nagini's lethal bite only thanks to his own skills. Not being dead, however, didn't mean that he had anything that could by rights be called a life. He had an existence, and had not one Hermione Granger decided that he deserved more than that, who knows what he might have done to himself.

Snape's existence began to look surprisingly like a life the moment Hermione Granger, recently out of Hogwarts (which especially in her case must not be confused with "out of the schoolroom" unless you have a death wish) refused to be deterred by his angry grunts and invectives and declared that she'd decided to become his apprentice. His faint protestations – when the conversation had arrived at that point, vigorous protest was simply beyond his strength – that he didn't take on private pupils were nonchalantly waved away, and the next day Hermione Granger presented herself on his doorstep at the ungodly hour of half past seven a.m., sharpened quills protruding from her pockets. She looked like a very eager and rather endearing porcupine.

A war hero apprenticing with the wizarding world's bogey man didn't go unnoticed for long, which was exactly what Hermione had expected. Whoever asked her about Snape, whether journalist, ministry employee, former schoolmate or shop assistant, got the same answer, i.e. a more or less abridged version of The Life and Times of Severus Snape, Unsung Hero and Badly Wronged Spy.

Slowly, public opinion began to change.

Three months later, Snape had to turn down requests, and those were requests to be put on his waiting list. He was able to offer only five apprenticeships at a time, and even this small number required minute and punctilious time management. Since these were qualities he possessed in abundance, he even enjoyed that aspect of being a private tutor.

There was, however, something he enjoyed infinitely more: teaching Hermione Granger.

She'd always been a most satisfying student, and her obsession with firing off questions and answers at all times had only been a problem in the classroom. During their private lessons he found it most refreshing. Besides, he liked her a lot and thought she was very pretty, but he would have bitten off and swallowed his own tongue rather than tell her.

Hermione, on the other hand, had gradually discovered that ugly doesn't mean unattractive. She'd also realized that non-stop brewing isn't exactly conducive to shiny, fluffy hair, but that his was always clean in the early morning. Moreover, she'd become aware that she genuinely liked the man – she'd missed him dreadfully during the three weeks he'd gone off exploring medicinal plants in South America. What had really upset her while he'd been away were the pictures constantly popping up in her mind of Snape having hot sex with even hotter Latina beauties, and the fits of irrational jealousy they engendered.

Something had to be done.

And once Hermione had decided that something needed to be done, she immediately and stubbornly started plotting until she had determined exactly how, when and where to do it.

It was the How that mad her stare at the bluish patterns of light and shadow on her bedroom ceiling for many sleepless nights.

Hermione's memories of her third year at Hogwarts still made her shudder; that had been the time when lack of sleep had become the thing she feared most. For her, a Boggart would have assumed the shape of a hollow-eyed, pale Hermione with trembling hands and her mental faculties shot to hell.

This was exactly what Snape saw when he answered the door to his favourite pupil, two weeks after he'd returned from his trip to South America.

'Are you ill?' he asked, frowning.

Hermione shook her head. Even her usually springy curls gave an impression of wilted despondency. 'No, just…' She seemed to lose her thread and stared off into the distance, her mouth slightly open.

'Just what?' Snape prompted when thirty seconds had passed without her sentence showing any tendency towards being finished.

'Huh?' Visibly pulling herself together, Hermione focused bleary eyes on Snape. 'Oh, good morning, Professor. How are you?'

'Tolerably well, thank you, Miss Granger. The same, or so it seems, cannot be said about you. What is the matter with you?' He took a step back to let her precede him into the house. 'You look tired,' he added.

'Just… just a little.' The huge yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaw did nothing to add credibility to an already weak lie.

Snape's brows rose. 'Just a little, indeed. You're fibbing, Miss Granger, and, what is worse, you're not even making an effort to do it well. I'd suggest that you go home, lie down and get some sleep.'

'No!' It came out before he had finished his sentence properly. She didn't want to go home, she wanted to spend time with him, even though she still hadn't got any idea when, where or how to make her move. Where wasn't really a problem, since they never met outside his house. How and When were still elusive, though, and… Her mind was abruptly stopped from wandering off on its own, when Snape drew himself up to his full height and shot her a menacing glare.

'You,' he said in his best make-Neville-wet-himself tone, 'are my pupil and therefore my responsibility. You're in no shape to do any brewing today, not with your eyelids at half mast and your hands trembling like... well, like very shaky things. You couldn't even grasp the stirring rod properly! And you know very well the importance of rod control!'

When overtired, Hermione didn't merely lose control of her hands. She just lost control, period. If somebody had told her the old – and let's be honest, not overly funny – joke of 'My dog's got no nose!' – 'How does it smell?' – 'Awful!' she would probably have laughed to the point of suffocation.

And she'd always found rod jokes to be very funny indeed.

'Do you think it would twitch a lot if I held it the wrong way?' she said, barely able to hold back a snigger.

'Don't talk nonsense, Miss Granger, rods don't twitch!'

They'd been slowly but steadily moving towards the half-open laboratory door, and now Hermione was leaning against its frame, partly to keep herself upright and partly to arrange herself in a seductive position. 'Well,' she said, thrusting her chest towards him and reclining her head slightly, 'maybe that was the wrong word. Would it throb, do you think?'

Although her semi-recumbent position didn't look nearly as seductive as Hermione thought – as a matter of fact, she was giving the impression of falling asleep on her feet – the subtext of her question wasn't missed by Snape. 'Behave yourself, Miss Granger,' was his stern reply. 'Such obscenities are beneath you!' While doing his best to keep up his saturnine front, he had to admit to himself that this was by no means an easy achievement, considering the interest his pupil's words were stirring up in his, erm, rod.

'Beneath me, eh?' Hermione's lips parted in a smile that was meant to look provocative. The speck of toothpaste clinging to the corner of her mouth somewhat lessened its effect. 'It wouldn't be beneath me if I knelt down, now would it?' This rhetorical question was followed by an unladylike snort.

'Miss Granger, really, I must insist! Be so kind as to cease this inappropriate behaviour!'

'You haven't seen me behave ina…' Hermione took a deep breath. 'Shit, I'm too tired to speak. In-ap-pro-priately, you haven't seen me behave in… well, that way yet. Believe me, I've been searching for the perfect rod, I really have, and still…' She blinked. 'I haven't found it yet, and certainly not for lack of trying.'

'I am not interested in your sexual escapades, Miss Granger,' Snape retorted coolly.

'No? I rather think you are. Although I wouldn't call them escapades. It was more… more of a quest, really. Quest for the Holy Rod, er, Perfect Grail, no dammit, Perfect Rod. You don't mind that I'm not a virgin anymore, do you professor?'

'Since it is not a requirement you have to fulfil in order to be taken on as an apprentice, no I don't.'

'The perfect rod,' Hermione said dreamily. 'Oh, how I'd love to get my hands on that! Not only my hands of course… You wouldn't let me try yours, would you professor?'

Biting his lip and determined to give her the put-down of her life, Snape stepped through the door into the lab and picked up a slender glass rod. 'Here you are,' he said sardonically and sketched a small bow. Not a wise thing to do in his state of arousal, he realized and winced.

And then, he had to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from yelping, because his favourite pupil, that pretty, well-behaved and eager young lady, was using the rod to caress her nipples through a shirt that suddenly seemed far too thin. 'Miss Granger, what,' he croaked, and then was reduced to silence, because all he could do was focus on breathing regularly while his eyes were following, mesmerized, the progress of the rod's end vanishing between her lips, only to emerge again and be caressed by a soft pink tongue and move down her throat, leaving a faint trail of saliva in its wake. 'Miss Granger,' he repeated weakly and became acutely aware that he didn't know what else to say. 'Stop it!' would have been the correct thing to say, but did he really want her to? 'May I offer you my very own rod?' with emphasis on 'own would have conveyed his intentions, but sounded a bit tacky. 'Oh pleasepleaseplease!' would have been closest to the truth, but quite undignified.

The adrenaline and various other hormones being rapidly pumped through her system momentarily cleared the clouds of exhaustion from Hermione's mind. In a sudden flash of inspiration she realized that sheer tiredness and fatigue had accomplished what she'd been trying so hard to plan for weeks. An evil smile lit her face, and she reflexively licked her lips. Her tongue encountered the toothpaste and rubbed at the stain.

That was the moment when Snape's brain stem decided that dignity ought to be sacrificed to procreation, and the potions master heard himself utter 'Oh pleasepleaseplease!' while he sank to his knees and buried his face in his apprentice's midriff.

Things proceeded very satisfactorily indeed once they'd managed to untangle Severus's hair from the zipper of Hermione's jeans.

The rod was subjected to various tests which it passed with flying colours. Hermione decided to keep it, and it stirred happily ever after.

(1)It's the magic wand, oh gutter-minded reader. Why? Well, because that's the one thing a policeman doesn't have. Tsk.

(2)It is rumoured that men are somewhat particular about the size of their big toes.

(3)Tom Puffett, the indefatigable sweeper of chimbleys, as portrayed in Dorothy Sayers' "Busman's Honeymoon"


	2. Chapter 2

FÜR ELISE

The small crowd of mourners moved slowly out of the cemetery. They looked like a small herd of drug-addled geese, when they crossed the village green and filtered, one by one, into the pub.

It had been an awkward ceremony: Hermione was the only child, and she hadn't seen her parents very often. After her father had died five years ago, she had taken to visiting her mother more frequently, but old Ms Granger's Alzheimer had been a severe case. If she was honest to herself, Hermione couldn't really claim to have known her parents very well, and her mother's death had come as a great relief to them all.

She was glad that Harry and Ron had found it in themselves to attend the funeral, and she was especially grateful to Minerva McGonagall, who had insisted on coming, because of fond memories of her two or three visits to the Grangers' home. The group was completed by the old lady who occupied the room next to Hermione's mother at the nursing home, and by the nurse who'd been appointed to accompany her.

The old lady wasn't a problem, insofar as contact with magical folk was concerned, because – as the nurse informed the others – she'd been regularly spotting UFOs in the park. A slip of the tongue wasn't likely to evoke her interest, and if it did, nobody was going to believe her anyway.

And as for the nurse, the magical participants had agreed that a small Obliviate wouldn't do any harm.

As so often happens after funerals, the atmosphere soon became quite animated – although now in their fifties, Harry, Ron and Hermione still shared fond memories of their schooldays together, and the presence of two former teachers, even though one of them was now married to Hermione, somehow reduced them all to giggling students.

After draining her pint and refusing lunch, the nurse prepared to wheel her charge back to the vehicle that had brought them there. She didn't even flinch when Severus directed a discreet memory charm at her turned back.

And then, the five were alone and finally able to talk freely.

They had lunch, and a few drinks, and when the pub closed, Hermione invited Harry, Ron and McGonagall back to the Snapes' flat in Diagon Alley. With a few bottles of wine waiting on the sideboard and nibbles on the coffee table, the five reclined comfortably on their chairs and kept on talking.

Content to sit next to her husband, sipping at her glass of red wine, Hermione allowed herself to withdraw from the general conversation, the better to contemplate the people she loved most. Thirty years had been enough to, if not eliminate, at least assuage the animosity between her husband and her two best friends. They had married late, only ten years ago – in fact, their tenth anniversary was due in three weeks – when the ocean of time had already polished the sharp rocks of resentment to flat, round pebbles. Her two boys weren't Snapes friends and never would be, but the three of them got on well enough. Life was good.

And now that her parents were no more… Oh, it was a hideous thought, the thought of a vulture waiting to claim a dead body… But she'd coveted it for so long, and now it was hers, finally hers!

'I wonder,' Hermione said into a brief lull in the general conversation, 'where we're going to put the Steinway Grand…'

Her husband took her shoulders in a fond grasp. 'I'm sure we'll find the perfect place.'

It didn't quite qualify for Famous Last Words, but it was close enough.

* * *

Chop-chop-chop-chop went the silver knife, exactly twice every second. Tok-tok-tok-tok went the exactly identical slices of arrowroot, as they fell though the hole in the chopping board and into the copper bowl underneath, two pieces every second.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee-di-daa-di-daaaa went the Steinway Grand, the last daaaa landed, lopsided, on C sharp instead of C. A short pause, then a violent discord, caused by a fist coming down on the keys, and a string of impressive, if unladylike, swearwords.

Severus gritted his teeth and grabbed the next arrowroot.

Chop/tee-chop-chop/di-tee-chop/di-chop/tee-di-daa-chop/di-chop-chop-chop/daaaaa. C sharp again.

Severus carefully wiped the knife, set it down on the chopping block and counted to fifty. Then he left his laboratory and, steps quickening, tried to reach the living room before his wife's next attempt.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee

He flung the door open. Hermione, hair sticking in all directions and a half-hunted, half-guilty look on her face, raised her head from the keyboard.

'Why?' was all he said.

'Because I've always wanted to play this piano!'

'But why butcher "Für Elise" for six weeks running? It must be mincemeat by now, and Beethoven must be spinning in his grave so fast that he's developed a gravitational field as strong as the sun's!'

'All beginners play "Für Elise",' she replied, trying for dignity.

'If it had been meant for beginners,' Severus retorted, sounding calmer than he felt, 'dearest Ludwig would have titled it "Für Anfänger". But he named it "Für Elise", and-'

'Suggest something then,' Hermione snapped, 'if you're such an expert!'

'Bach's first two-part invention,' Severus shot back and returned to his lab in a whirl of black robes.

* * *

It was still early in the morning, the sun had just cast a first glance over the roofs of Diagon Alley and was highlighting the upper half of the bedroom window curtains. They were a rich, creamy golden beige, and the light that fell into the room was soft and mellow.

Hermione stretched and yawned. A smile spread over her face when she felt her husband's hand caressing her flank. 'That was very good early-morning sex, my darling.'

'If you say so…' Eyes hooded, he grinned at her. 'I was still half asleep, I really didn't notice.'

'Filthy liar,' she said. 'You just want to do it again!'

'In five minutes, provided you'll still be interested.' He snuggled close to her, rubbing against her arse. 'You know,' he said after a while, 'it's strange that hands can be so talented when it comes to sex, and so cruel when it comes to Bach.'

The repeat performance was cancelled due to indisposition of the male protagonist.

* * *

'It's an outrage!'

'What exactly is an outrage, my darling?' Severus inquired, looking up from the formula he was writing.

'They're re-allowing a certain quota of elephants to be shot in Kenya! I can't believe it! Those greedy, disgusting bastards! Nothing is important to them, nothing but money, and they don't care about those beautiful, majestic animals! I'm going to… I'm going to try Voodoo dolls, really I am.'

'Darling,' Severus said, 'you know, don't you, that the keys of your beloved Steinway Grand are made of ivory?'

It had been worth the attempt, he told himself, while he was carefully mending the pages of his notebook.

* * *

'The baby's due at Christmas,' Harry said glumly. 'You know what that means, don't you? I'll have to spend Christmas at the Burrow, with three overexcited boys who want to see their new sister, and a mother-in-law who won't stop fussing…'

'Why don't you come over to our place?' In her enthusiasm Hermione stirred her coffee so violently that half of it was slopped on the saucer. 'It would be lovely! You and Severus could take the boys to Hogsmeade for a game of Quidditch and afternoon tea, so I'd have enough time to prepare dinner. Oh, and we could sing carols! It's still five weeks till Christmas, so I can practise – I'll go up to the attic straight away and look for my mother's old songbook!'

Molly Weasley was most gratified to have Harry and his brood over for Christmas.

Still, Severus refused to sing along to his wife's not overly recognizable version of "Silent Night, Holy Night". His muttered 'If only it were silent!' went unheard, which was lucky, because being hit over the head with 10 pounds of frozen turkey doesn't make for a pleasant Christmas atmosphere.

* * *

Master Pavel looked even older than Severus had anticipated. His exterior was that of a benign mummy; only the eyes, blacker even than Severus's, were piercing and lively amidst their maze of wrinkled skin.

'Vas difficult to find my house, eh?' he rasped when a slightly exhausted Severus rapped on his door. 'Is verry tricky city, Praha, verry tricky. Come in, come in! My vife has the coffee ready.'

Severus followed him into a… room wasn't quite the right word for it, den would probably have expressed it better. Every surface was cluttered, even the ceiling, from which hung paintings, musical instruments of every form and shape, cured hams and, as a centrepiece, an enormous wreath of garlic.

'Verry important, the garrlick,' said Master Pavel, following Severus's astonished stare at this pièce de résistance. 'Verry important, Praha full of vampires.

His wife, a tiny woman, her spine so bent with age that she barely came up to Severus's elbow, served the coffee on a silver tray and withdrew instantly.

'So,' said Master Pavel. 'You haff come for your spell, eh? Vas impossible to craft it yourself, eh? Verry difficult, musical spells, verry difficult. And' – his lips parted in a wide smile that showed his toothless gums – 'verry expensive. Mozart's son vanted to buy one, poor boy, he vanted to be composer so much, poor Franz Xaver, vanted to be as great as his father…'

'I suppose it didn't work quite as expected,' Severus said politely.

'Not vorrk? My spell not vorrk?'

'I beg your pardon. That was a very unfortunate remark, Master Pavel. So what happened to Franz Xaver Mozart?'

'Unfortunate,' the old wizard grumbled, 'verry unfortunate indeed. He couldn't afford it, poor boy, vith all his father's money, couldn't afford it!'

'I, erm, was under the impression that the price was five hundred British Galleons,' Severus ventured.

'Forr little spell to make vife pianist, yes, fife hundred galleons, yes.' Master Pavel leaned over and patted Severus's knee with a claw-like hand. 'But forr making music genius from boy with little talent, ah, vould have cost fortune! Forrtune, I say.'

'Oh, that's all right then,' Severus said and took a sip of coffee. He couldn't afford to offend his host and business partner again after his unfortunate lapse with Franz Xaver's spell, and so he swallowed the tar-like brew with as much equanimity as he could muster.

The rest went into a potted plant, though, when Master Pavel turned his back to rummage for the spell Severus had ordered.

'Vill play like Rubinstein, the lady, vill play like Beethoven himself! I heard him, I must know. Verry nasty guy, verry nasty, but grreat musician.'

* * *

The spell worked as promised.

Hermione was very happy, and so was Severus. They both wrote a letter of thanks to Master Pavel.

Unfortunately the old Master had forgotten to mention that the spell didn't last forever. And so, the public that had crowded into Carnegie Hall to hear Hermione Snape, late prodigy and diva assoluta, play Beethoven's piano concerto no.5, was very astonished indeed when, after the tempestuous start of the third movement, the music suddenly petered out.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee-di-daa-di-daaaaa. Daaaa on C sharp.

The critics didn't quite know what to write.


	3. Chapter 3

DANCES WITH WOLVES

Curious and manifold are the things an ex-Death Eater is prepared to do in order to stay out of Azkaban. And although bribery, blackmail and subtle threats to the right people are the more commonly established means of avoiding a trip to the wizarding prison, the modern Death Eater and wizard du monde will by no means despise marriage, if it is likely to steer him away from a certain island in the North Sea.

If this is true for one Death Eater, it's doubly true for two of them.

Lucius Malfoy had always been a very cautious wizard: whatever he'd done in his capacity as a Death Eater, he'd either had an alibi or disposed nicely of any witnesses. There was only one exception to this rule though, and it might prove fatal. When Fenrir Greyback's Friendly Parcel Service had delivered Potter, Weasley and Granger to Malfoy Manor, Lucius hadn't made the least effort to stop his sister-in-law torturing the young witch.

As far as Narcissa and Draco were concerned, there was no need to worry. Narcissa hadn't helped either, and neither had Draco, so his ex-wife and son didn't have anything to gain by pointing out that daddy dearest had been a by no means innocent bystander. Potter and Weasley had been in the dungeons, and everybody else was dead. But Granger… The Granger girl was alive and kicking, and although she didn't seem especially keen to see him in Azkaban, Lucius wasn't going to rely on that assumption.

Unfortunately the young lady was unbribable, unblackmailable and unthreatenable. Lucius almost felt reluctant admiration for the witch. Admiration, whether reluctant or unbridled, wasn't going to get him out of this fix though. The trial was to take place in six weeks, and he needed all the help he could get.

In the end, he hit on a solution that was as simple as it was brilliant, if he said so himself. Wives were not allowed to testify for or against their husbands in court, so marriage was the way out of the dilemma.

This meant he had to court the Granger girl, and he had to do it quickly. Not too quickly though, in order to avoid suspicion. A bit of inside knowledge of his soon-to-be betrothed would be very much to his advantage, he thought while partaking of a light breakfast. Draco didn't really know her – the boy always started to babble about his nose, whenever Granger was mentioned. Being able to hold on to a grudge was, in principle, a very laudable quality in a Malfoy, but only so long as you didn't allow the grudge to block your view on its object.

Approaching Potter or Weasley was useless, for many reasons.

Lucius took a thoughtful sip of champagne. He needed a willing source of information; there really was no time to be wasted cajoling tidbits out of recalcitrant youths. Lost in his musings, Lucius refilled his glass. So profoundly was he immersed in the meanderings of his mind that he almost jumped when a house elf announced Severus Snape.

Severus, too, was facing the dire perspective of a prolonged holiday in an invigorating northern climate, surrounded by highly trained attendants and potential friends for life. He hadn't survived the last twenty years only to spend the next fifty in jail. True, Potter had told everybody and their dogs about Severus being a spy and really one of the Good Guys, but then Potter's reputation had been severely damaged a few times already. It had been done, so it could be done again. Weasley was useless as a character witness, because his knowledge of the facts as they really were was merely hearsay. Ditto for Granger. But Granger was a war hero, she'd never been accused of having gone round the bend or entertained relationships of a dubious nature with the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Granger was to be the trump card – he couldn't play it in court, of course, because wives weren't allowed as witnesses for or against their husbands. But the mere fact of Granger choosing to marry him was bound to corroborate Potter's version of events.

Due to two decades spent mooning after a long-dead girl while he did his best to teach hormonal teenagers, keep Dumbledore happy and Voldemort even happier and thus his life Cruciatus-free, Severus Snape wasn't what you'd call an expert in the art of courtship. But he knew a man who was. The woman who could resist Lucius's tactics of seduction hadn't yet been born. The man was an expert, and he was Severus's friend. Besides, once Narcissa had decamped after the divorce, the skimmed milk, weak tea and fat-free comestibles had mysteriously vanished from the breakfast table.

They really did serve excellent breakfast now at Malfoy Manor.

* * *

'Well,' Lucius said, smiling thinly and dabbing his lips with a blindingly white napkin, 'it seems that we have ourselves a problem.'

'It seems that we do.' Severus nodded. 'Since neither of us is particularly suited to playing the part of sacrificial lamb…'

'Certainly not. It's a pity, really,' Lucius continued with a half-lidded, calculating glance at the Potions master, 'that she's so young, barely nineteen. Because otherwise…' He let the sentence hang and chose a miniature Danish pastry.

Severus leaned back and crossed his arms. 'Exactly my thoughts. It would be a trifle unusual, but by no means unheard-of. The last time it was done, if I remember correctly, two women married the same man… 1852, was it?'

'Unless you count Morgana the Morganatic and her two centaurs in 1893, yes it was. It is our chosen one that is the problem, Severus. She's too inexperienced. Merely hinting at the possibility would have an extremely adverse effect on our project.'

'You never know with those Gryffindors,' Severus said pensively, 'If we managed to present it as a challenge, a kind of dare?'

'A _dare_? Severus, she may be a child, and a virgin to boot, but she's not stupid. Marriage isn't something she'd do on a dare, Gryffindor or not.'

'You're probably right.'

There was a prolonged silence, and then Severus said, 'Do you really think she's a virgin?'

'Of course!'

'Lucius, she spent almost a year in a tent with two boys, do you really-'

'I'm pretty sure. They couldn't use magic too often, and they didn't have access to potions – she'd be about to give birth by now, if they'd had sex. Provided those two dolts managed to fit tab A into slot B, but experience tells us that this is the one thing even Cornelius Fudge managed.'

Severus nodded his appreciation. 'Good point. We can eliminate her having had sex at Hogwarts, because she simply wouldn't have found the time – believe me, I know. I saw her essays. I'm not so sure about the past six months, though.'

'Nonsense. The Weasley girl is her best friend, and she'd have told Draco. She tells him everything, and he…' Lucius heaved a dramatic sigh. 'He passes it on to me in minute detail. If it had happened, it would have come up in conversation.'

Silence descended again. Both men were contemplating their plan.

'There's nothing for it,' Severus finally said. 'We have to try.'

'Mmh. She's our ticket out of Azkaban. We're Slytherins – surely we're able to lure a chit of a girl into bed?' It had come out more like a question than he was comfortable with.

'We ought to try,' Severus said firmly.

'Very well, old friend. We shall be wolves dressed as lambs.'

Severus shook his head in disapproval. 'Mixed metaphor, Lucius. But whether we are mutton or wolves, we ought to start plotting without delay. Taking into consideration that our intended is very possibly a virgin.'

* * *

Hermione had never liked her great-aunt Daliah. Or rather, she had started taking a shine to the old lady when her testament was opened.

According to one of Hermione's many firm beliefs, like and dislike were always mutual. It seemed, though, that Daliah Granger had been an exception to this rule, because her fondness for Hermione had been as great as Hermione's aversion to the woman. She still got the shivers when she remembered the visits she'd been forced to make, the heavy perfume and squashy bosom, the stains rubbed off her face with spit and the horribly overcooked broccoli.

But all these were things of the past now, and Hermione had been the proud owner of a flat in Knightsbridge and a fat bank account for four months. Once she'd cleared out the flat and got rid of the ubiquitous odour of mothballs, she was quite happy with her new home. The fatness of the bank account allowed her to do what she'd wanted to do since the beginning of her camping odyssey with Harry and Ron: Get a life, have fun, read the books she fancied reading, and generally make up her mind about her future without any pressure at all.

Crookshanks had moved in together with her and immediately taken possession of the small back garden and the nice sunny spot on the window seat downstairs.

Hermione didn't plan on continuing her life of hedonism forever, but she had allowed herself a year. In spite of her newfound freedom, it was by no means an easy year: she had to survive endless interrogations at the Ministry, often three times a week, and after six months, she was beginning to feel that maybe all those stupid bureaucrats hadn't been worth saving. She hadn't been so foolish as to expect complete peace once everything was over, but neither had she thought of herself as such an important witness that the Aurors would need her to testify every two days. She was beginning to get grumpy and sullen, and that wasn't at all what she had imagined. She'd wanted to be carefree, finally, just for a year, not to be reminded again and again of events she'd have preferred to deal with on her own, in her own time.

Besides, she was sure that the Aurors were twisting and turning her words into something that didn't resemble her own version at all. Take the questions about Snape, for instance: there was no doubt that they _wanted_ the man to be guilty; it was as plain as daylight from the way they asked their interminable questions. And although she didn't like Lucius Malfoy in the least, she wanted the man to get a fair trial. Yes, he had stood by inactively while his crazy sister-in-law tortured her, but what on earth could he have done without a wand? But that obviously wasn't what the Aurors wanted to hear.

Anyway, it was Saturday, which meant that she had two undisturbed days to look forward to. The nice young man, with whom she'd had a rather satisfying one-night stand on Wednesday, wasn't likely to bother her again, because she'd changed her phone number and erased his memory of her address. She was getting quite good at that, Hermione mused while her coffee was steeping in the French coffee press. The first time she'd felt awful, but then rationality had triumphed over misplaced guilt – she never promised more than one night, and if they didn't want to hold up their end of the bargain, well, they'd have to deal with it. The boys at the Vodafone shop already knew her, although they didn't know why she kept changing her number so frequently.

Nor did anybody else know. She was exploring a hitherto neglected side of herself, and there was no reason why she should expose herself to questions or, heaven forbid, judgement.

She pressed down the filter, selected a medium-sized cup and put coffee pot and cup down on a tray, on which a basket of croissants was already waiting next to a butter dish and a selection of jams and honey.

Crookshanks joined her in the library – she'd converted the living room immediately after moving in – and together they sat in companionable silence, Crookshanks contemplating the pattern of the placemat, Hermione reading the morning paper.

When the doorbell rang, she was more surprised than annoyed. She checked her appearance on the way out – hair hopeless, very nice negligee, nail varnish on her toes still all right – and peered through the spy hole.

She withdrew, shook her head and looked again. But the figure on her doorstep remained Severus Snape, even after another shake of the head and a renewed effort to dispel what she thought must be an illusion. In the end, she decided to open the door.

'Professor Snape?' she asked cautiously, careful not to enunciate too clearly, so that she could still claim to have said 'postman', if the illusion decided to go away.

'The very same,' he said in the voice she instantly recognized. 'I am aware that this is a very awkward time for me to disturb you on a Saturday morning.'

Too polite to just ask what he wanted, Hermione bade him come in and share her breakfast. She hadn't really expected him to accept and was surprised when he did. Her surprise grew when Crookshanks approached her former teacher with every sign of affectionate interest and shed an astonishing amount of copper hair on his trousers. Snape didn't seem to mind though, and sat down at the table.

He was wearing Muggle clothing, Hermione realized when she poured his coffee into a hastily fetched cup. Nothing extraordinary, just a pair of casual black trousers and a grey polo shirt under a dark grey jumper. She peered down the front and noticed his hairless chest. She liked hairless chests. She had to admit that she rather liked what she saw – he was as lean as a whiplash, sinewy and without a gram of fat, and he had very good legs indeed. The hair was clean, too, and combed back from his face in a loose ponytail.

'You look good, professor,' she remarked, sitting down opposite him. 'I'm glad to see you have recovered so well.'

If she had expected a rebuke from the man she'd thought to be reclusive to the point of obsession, she'd been wrong. 'Thank you, Miss Granger,' he said. 'I have to return the compliment. You have changed a great deal since last I saw you.'

Hermione snorted. 'Well, I guess neither of us was looking their best last time we laid eyes on each other. But I'm glad you came to see me, although I'm not quite sure…' She didn't finish her sentence and gave him an expectant look.

'Ah.' Snape put own his cup. 'Excellent coffee, by the way, Miss Granger. But then you were always a dab hand at brewing. I am sure my visit, unannounced visit, must seem very strange to you.'

'Unexpected, yes. Strange, well, yes, a bit. I mean, you aren't exactly a social animal. As far as I know,' she added hastily, because she knew from experience how tedious it was having other people tell you who and what you were.

'Not exactly, no. Although I have been known to talk to people for more than thirty seconds, you know. But I admit that from a student's point of view, your impression was quite correct.'

'Well, I'm not a student anymore,' Hermione said reasonably.

'No, you aren't.'

He gave her a Look when he said that, and Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of it. In a different environment and with a different man, she'd have interpreted it as decidedly flirtatious. But here? Snape? Well, she wasn't going to get ahead of her data. First observation, then interpretation. I worked as well with men as it did with empirical studies.

'The reason for my visit at this unreasonable hour is a favour I would like to ask of you.'

Ah. Of course. She ought to have thought of it right away. 'It's about your trial, isn't it? I assure you, professor, that I'll do anything in my power-'

'I'm sure I'm very grateful, Miss Granger,' he interrupted her. 'But that wasn't why I came here.'

'It wasn't? Well, in that case I'm even more curious!'

'It is… a little awkward. But I suppose beating about the bush will do no good, so I'll come straight to the heart of the matter. There will be a ball, on Wednesday, at Malfoy Manor, and I meant to ask you whether you'd be good enough to accompany me.'

There was a long silence. Hermione felt as if a tectonic shift was taking place in her head. 'Did you just ask me,' she said tonelessly, 'to go with you to a ball at Malfoy Manor?'

'I'm afraid I did.'

'But why?'

The acid test. Severus took a fortifying sip of coffee. 'There is more than one reason. Firstly, I've been invited to a ball and need a partner. Now, the list of women who would even consider being seen with me is very short. You were the only exception I could think of.'

'That,' said Hermione, 'is probably true.'

'Er, yes. Secondly, I don't want to spend a whole evening with some stupid bimbo, who thinks she might get her share of fame by going out with the wizarding world's most hated man.'

'I think you're using a bit too much black to paint the picture, but on the whole, yes, I understand.'

'Thirdly, I can't and don't want to conceal from you the fact that I desperately need to be seen with somebody above any suspicion whatsoever.'

'Then why accept an invitation from Malfoy?' Hermione asked, refilling both their cups.

'Good question. Because everybody who is anybody will be there. Shacklebolt, McGonagall, Potter, Weasley, reporters, everybody.'

'No! I mean, you don't mean to tell me that all these people have accepted an invitation from _Malfoy_? I don't believe it!'

'My dear Miss Granger, I think you sadly underestimate the attraction of expensive champagne, exquisite food, the possibility to show one's face and…' He grinned. 'You're Muggle-born, so you probably don't know. A ten-karat diamond is waiting for the lucky lady who wins the tombola, and a pint of Felix Felicis for the lucky male winner. It's a tradition Lucius established after the first Voldemort war.'

'With good reason,' Hermione commented dryly.

'Oh yes, of course.'

'There is one small thing that bothers me in an otherwise delectable scheme pour épater les bourgeois. If I go with you, I'll be doing Malfoy an equally big favour.'

'Not necessarily,' Severus replied smoothly. 'Not that I want to belittle your efforts in the, erm, latest upheaval, but if Minerva and Potter are there, do you really think your attendance would make much of a difference?'

'I still don't understand why Harry would go,' Hermione muttered, frowning.

'Cherchez la femme.'

'But he's unattached right now – oh, I see! You mean he'll try to get Ginny back? Fat chance he's got, especially if she gets the diamond. That's bound to attach her to the Malfoys forever. Plus, she's been avoiding him for months!'

'You are not without a healthy cynicism, Miss Granger,' Severus remarked gravely. 'I like that in a woman. So, do we have a deal?'

'It seems that we do, professor. Does Mr Malfoy know about your plan? He won't be too pleased, I imagine.'

'As of yet, he doesn't. I hope you will understand the deeply-rooted male instinct not to tell one's friend that one intends to invite a girl, while one isn't sure yet whether she's going to say yes. A matter of primitive pride, I suppose. But rest assured that I will inform him presently.'

* * *

Accepting an invitation to a house where one had been tortured and actually entering that house were two very different things, as Hermione found out on the following Wednesday. When she and the boys had been transported to Malfoy Manor, bound and gagged and so frightened that something as natural as breathing had seemed like hard work, it had been dark. The Manor had been looming ahead, once they'd emerged from the gravel path leading towards it. Hermione still remembered with horrible clarity how she'd been telling herself, with every step of their captors that brought them nearer their destination, that this was the last day of her life, and how completely unable she'd been, even then, to grasp the thought. It had just been a sentence, and a terrible one, and somewhere in the back of her mind it even made sense, but she could have thought 'There'll be sausage for breakfast', and it would've made as much sense as the thought of her imminent death.

It was dark now, too – the days had already begun to lengthen, as it was February, but at seven p.m. the sun had long gone – and they were travelling in a carriage, which swayed gently on the gravel. Hermione felt her hands go clammy.

'I, erm, don't think I can do this,' she said, when the carriage had come to a halt at the foot of the large staircase. She had trouble breathing, and her arms and legs felt so stiff as if they'd never unbend again.

'How thoughtless of me.' Severus, who was sitting opposite her, bent forward to get a glimpse of her face in the darkness. 'I should never have… Miss Granger, do you want me to escort you home?'

'And turn tail? Never! I just need' – she took a few deep, reassuring gulps of air – 'I just need to get my breathing under control.'

Severus sincerely doubted that that would be enough, given that the girl was trembling like a leaf. 'Would you maybe like to walk for a while? It's cold, but with a warming charm you should be quite comfortable'

She gave him a grateful smile and nodded. 'Yes, that's a good idea. Will you walk with me? My knees are feeling a bit weak. But, won't we be too late or anything?'

Suppressing a smile with difficulty, Severus thought that she'd probably be anxious to arrive in time for her own execution. 'No problem. The ball as such only starts at nine; before it's just mingling and inane small talk – Lucius won't make his grand appearance before half past eight at the earliest. So there's plenty of time.'

He cast the necessary charms on her cloak and footwear, and they set off into the darkness. As they walked, Hermione felt the panic recede and started to enjoy the stroll that led them past flowerbeds heaped high with earth, with narcissi and crocuses dreaming of sun and rain, and past skeletal trees that embraced the night sky with their barren arms.

'Better?' Severus asked, when they'd wandered for about twenty minutes.

'Much better. Thank you, that was an excellent idea. You know what I'd really like now?'

'A drink?' Severus ventured hopefully, since he was feeling the growing need for a double scotch, no water please, and keep those ice cubes. On second thought, make that a triple.

She beamed up at him. 'Exactly. You aren't using Legilimency, are you?'

'I'd rather call it empathy,' he replied dryly, and she laughed. 'We'll enter through the side doors' – he pointed at the glass doors to their left – 'into the library. Lucius's elves don't let the guests trespass, so we'll be quite undisturbed there.'

'I daresay the elves won't keep you from the library?'

'No, and as my companion for the night you are of course allowed in as well.'

They swiftly walked over to the doors Severus had indicated. The room behind them wasn't as brightly lit as the entrance hall had been, something that Hermione found very comforting. The darkness in the garden had been like a protective layer she was reluctant to leave behind, but she could cope with that warm golden light.

The door had barely closed behind them, when a house elf popped into existence and inquired after their wishes. With a quick sideways glance at Hermione, Severus told it to retire; they'd pour their own drinks.

'I would have imagined a much bigger library,' Hermione muttered, more to herself than to her companion, wile she contemplated the cosy room with its large desk and bookshelves.

'Oh, this isn't the main library. This is just Lucius's lair, where he drags the books he's currently using, in order to devour them in peace.'

Seized by sudden panic, Hermione grabbed the edge of a bookshelf so hard that her fingers hurt. 'His… Are you saying that this is Malfoy's private study?'

'Uh-huh. Very cosy, isn't it?'

'Cosy isn't a word I'd associate with – oh my god!'

'Good evening,' said the Lord of the Manor, closing the door behind him and smiling at his guests. 'I couldn't quite believe it when that benighted elf told me – but here you are. Welcome to my home, Miss Granger.'

As he walked towards her with his hand already outstretched to salute her, Hermione felt physically, like a small, personal earthquake, how paradigms suddenly shifted and reality realigned itself. This wasn't the Malfoy she'd fleetingly known. This was post-war Malfoy, a man who'd been humiliated and beaten, and whose beliefs had been so thoroughly destroyed that nothing remained of them. He was still good-looking and still able to maintain a façade of aloofness, but the man underneath was very much changed.

She mechanically shook Malfoy's hand while her head turned, almost of its own volition, to look at Snape. How on earth had she been able still to call him professor, after all that had happened? He was just a man – a powerful wizard, yes, just like Malfoy was still a powerful wizard, but their time was over, and hers had begun. It would never do to underestimate those two men, because they were, without a doubt, still forces to be reckoned with. But she'd never again be afraid of them, because Snape wasn't her teacher anymore, and Malfoy wasn't a threat anymore. They had no power over her. They were just men.

And very attractive, she thought as she watched them pour the drinks. Opposites, matching pieces, the kind of thing any collector would be ready to acquire at an enormous price.

Collector, eh?

She'd been thinking of herself as a kind of collector these last months… You couldn't put one-night stands on a shelf for others to admire well, you could, but the police tended to give very nasty names to such propensities), but then hers was a very different kind of collection. These two – they'd make a nice centrepiece. One would have to have them both of course, that was what matching sets were for.

Hermione crossed the room and sat down on a large sofa. When the two men turned towards her with their drinks in hand, she smiled – did it feel wolf-like only to her, she wondered – and patted the empty spaces to her left and right.

* * *

'I'm telling you right here and now,' Hermione said huskily, when she'd reluctantly separated her lips from Severus's, 'that a one-night stand won't be enough. Usually I put memory charms on the blokes and change my phone number, just to be on the safe side, you know, but the way you two are making me feel, I'm sure once won't be enough. And we've only just been kissing.'

Lucius cast a fleeting look at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'Unless one of you has a time turner, I'm afraid it's too late now to do much more than kissing. It's a quarter past eight already, and you' – he fondly bit Hermione's earlobe – 'have dishevelled me beyond recognition.'

'It suits you, though.' Hermione turned to place a kiss on the blond wizard's throat and grinned at the love bite she left blooming on the white skin.

'I'm sure it does, but it is not a fit state to greet my guests in. Perhaps the two of you would like to accompany me upstairs, to freshen up and, er, familiarize yourself with the premises? I trust the lady' – he somehow managed to bow to Hermione and smile up at her at the same time – 'will be gracing us with her presence after the ball?'

'The lady is definitely inclined to do so,' Hermione replied. 'And now she has to go and powder her nose. See you upstairs, gentlemen.' She gave each of them a peck on the cheek and strode out of Lucius's study.

The two wizards, left alone, stared at each other.

'Virgin, you said?' Severus muttered finally.

'I have been known to be wrong, although it is an extremely rare occurrence,' Lucius replied stiffly.

'Well, you were, but not in a bad way, I'd say.'

'Not bad at all, no.'

'Do you think she'll consent to marry us? Or is she just going to use us and then dump us?'

Lucius sniffed. 'Nobody uses and dumps a Malfoy.'

'Except for Voldemort.'

'Well, yes, that would be the exception to the rule.'

'Indeed.'

The two men fell silent.

'Have you ever…' Severus began, but didn't finish his sentence.

'N-no.'

'No? I was convinced you got up to all kinds of depravities!'

'I might have given that impression,' Lucius said cautiously, 'but as a matter of fact…'

'You're a serial seducer! The man whom no woman has yet refused!'

'That might be a slight, erm, exaggeration.'

'Exaggeration? You'd better explain yourself, Lucius! You know what's at stake!'

Lucius passed a desperate hand through his already mussed hair. 'Well, if you really have to know…'

'Of course I have to know. We can't afford to disappoint the girl. What did you say?' Severus asked sharply, when Lucius muttered an indistinguishable reply.

'I said, there was only ever Narcissa.'

'Only ever… Good heavens, man, you're not much more than a virgin!'

'I'll have you know,' Lucius began heatedly, but then deflated. 'All right. Let's have a look at the books, there must be something about threesomes.'

'I thought Narcissa had confiscated all your naughty books.'

'Oh, damn. So she did.' Lucius gnawed at his thumbnail – Severus rightly took it as a sign of extreme distress, because he'd never seen his friend bite his nails, not even when Voldemort took away his wand.

'We'll have to make it up as we go,' he said soothingly. 'I'm sure we can pull it off. The old wand is still in working condition, I trust?'

Lucius winced. 'I'll thank you not to be rude, Severus. Of course it – oh, here you are, Hermione.'

'Yes, here I am, and the two of you still aren't ready. You'd better get going, the sooner we start that stupid ball, the sooner it will be over.'

'Yes, dear,' they said in unison and followed her meekly out of the library and towards the Great Staircase.


	4. Chapter 4

DINNER FOR FIVE

The Malfoy family portraits had been playing a special part in the life of the Malfoy family ever since the oldest one, depicting Bertrand de Malefoi who'd come over with William the Bastard (the idea to shed that rather ignominious nickname had been Bertrand's, along with the new, much more flattering epithet), had been hung on the wall of the first Manor. The house had been rebuilt three times since then, becoming grander and more spacious in the process, and the portrait gallery had been allotted more and more room. In its most recent reincarnation, Malfoy Manor looked almost exactly like Blenheim castle, only in better shape and with decidedly fewer tourists.

The current occupants were, at least in the portraits' opinion, not much different from their forefathers. They'd found the gallery when they started to walk on their own, had spent a few hours screaming in fright when they discovered that the painted people could actually talk, and in the end had discovered that their two-dimensional ancestors were great people to talk to. The portraits were discreet, due less to any natural inclination than to their fear of turpentine.

On a cloudy summer morning, whose humidity promised imminent rain, the latest Malfoy scion was restlessly pacing up and down the gallery.

'Because, you see,' he said, turning towards Modestus Malfoy in what seemed to be the continuation of a conversation begun some time ago, 'pulling girls is difficult enough with a name like Scorpius.'

Modestus quirked a white-blond eyebrow. 'I can't quite see why Scorpius should be more of an impediment than the name my father chose to burden me with.'

'It's a good name,' snapped the portrait hanging next to him. 'A camouflaging name, I don't mind telling you.'

'A bloody pain-in-the-arse name, if you ask me,' growled Modestus. 'Girls immediately associated it with modest proportions. It was awful.'

Scorpius sighed. 'Could we get back to the problem at hand, please? You can quarrel all you want when I'm gone. As I was saying,' he continued when Modestus had turned his gaze back on him, 'the name Scorpius is bad enough, just one step away from Coitus Interruptus.'

'One step too far in your case,' Modestus remarked, 'or you wouldn't be here, young man.' The other portraits sniggered.

'Very funny. Anyway, there's this girl…'

The portraits, who had listened to many a confession starting with the very same words, arranged their faces into expressions of dutiful interest. "There's this girl" might be leading anywhere, depending on the character of the speaker. In some cases, it had led to the speaker being burned, because the ecclesiastical authorities hadn't been too tolerant of virgin sacrifices in past centuries.

'And I think she really is the one,' Scorpius went on dreamily. 'She's smart, and fun, and very, very pretty. I met her during my gap year as a tutor at Beauxbatons – she was still a student then.'

There was a whistle from the far end of the wall. 'French?' As usual, Luciferus Malfoy managed to convey a world of depravity in one single syllable.

'No, Italian. She speaks French of course, and her English is very good, too, but that's beside the bloody point.'

'Have you…' Modestus wiggled his eyebrows.

'Yes, we have, and it was bloody wonderful, but that's not the point either. The problem, which has become a problem only because I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut, is that Lucius has invited us both to dinner. And not,' he added ominously, 'at a restaurant.'

'So?' Modestus prompted, cocking his head.

'So we're invited to dinner at grandfather's bloody mansion in Kent.'

'You ought to be relieved. If this were still his house and he'd invited you here, he might have shown her the torture chambers. As I've been informed, some weak-stomached ladies don't react too well.'

'It still is his house, he's just left it for dad to live in. And it's not the house I'm having problems with. It his, erm, situation.'

Modestus and his father exchanged looks of incomprehension. 'His situation?' Modestus echoed.

'Yes, his situation. His lifestyle, if you will. In case you've forgotten, the old man is living with a man and a woman! One of whom is my former teacher, and the other my dad's former schoolmate! She's in her mid-forties now, and Lucius and Severus in their mid-sixties, and they're still going at it like Nifflers!'

'Not, I presume, in the presence of strangers, at the dinner table,' said Modestus.

'Well, probably not, but you never know. What will Luisa say, though? I'll have to explain it to her – what if she's so scandalized that she never wants to see me again?'

'I think,' said Modestus, 'that you are exaggerating a little. Why should she be scandalized? And why, if I may inquire, should her being scandalized by your grandfather's debauchery have any impact on your relationship? I'd call her a very silly girl indeed, if she jumped to the conclusion that you wanted the same as your grandfather. Or do you?'

'No, I don't. But you know how it is – those things always jump one generation.'

'That's twins,' Circe Malfoy, Modestus' right-hand neighbour, pointed out reasonably.

'All right then. But what if the conversation takes a turn towards, you know?'

'You'll just steer it away from you know,' said Modestus. 'And be careful not to mention the word orifice. That might give them ideas.'

* * *

'The only thing I really like about dinner parties,' Severus stated, 'is leftovers for breakfast.' He cut himself another large slice of roast lamb and topped it with cold gravy. The composition wobbled dangerously on his fork.

Lucius shuddered delicately. 'How you manage to eat this stuff for breakfast is beyond me.' He took a sip of tea and frowned. 'Actually it's disgusting.'

'You had too much to drink, dear,' Hermione said, frowning at him from underneath her curls. 'You're not as young as you used to be, and drinking with a goblin wouldn't be a very wise thing to do even if you were still twenty.'

Rolling his eyes at Severus's snicker, Lucius poured himself more tea. 'Ragnork is a very important goblin, and I clinched the deal. This in itself' – he made a face at Severus – 'would warrant a bit of consideration for my delicate sensibilities. Besides Severus is developing a pot belly, and we really can't have that. Severus running to fat would be too incongruous even to contemplate with equanimity.'

'Be quiet pots, and listen to the kettle pontificating. You've been hoarding pounds like the Bank of England, Lucius. You've got more stones than Stonehenge.'

'In some people,' Lucius retorted, miffed, 'it looks better than in others. Look at Hermione for example-'

'Are you saying I'm fat?' the lady in question snapped.

'Not at all, my dear, not at all. You are statuesque, which is a lady's prerogative, and it suits you to perfection. Severus on the other hand has the physique of a cheetah, and fat doesn't befit a cheetah.'

'What are you then?' Severus muttered, 'A polar bear?'

'Don't be ridiculous, Severus. I'm a tiger and thus a feline of massive build. The structure swallows up a few pounds without any difficulty.'

Hermione, sensing that her two men were only inches away from quarrelling, took hold of the tiller and resolutely steered the boat of conversation into more tranquil waters. 'Speaking of dinner parties: Scorpius and his inamorata are coming tomorrow, and I have to plan dinner. I'm not quite sure what to put on the menu.'

'You,' Lucius said, reaching across the table to capture her hand and kiss it, 'have become such a paragon of Lady-of-the-Manor-ness. You could fret about menus with the best of them.'

'Well, it _is_ worrying,' Hermione said sternly and retrieved her hand. 'We want to make a good impression, don't we?'

Severus frowned at her over the rim of his coffee cup. 'I thought the girl ought to make a good impression, not us.'

'Yes of course, poor dear, she'll be fretting about being presented to the family. But we have to create a favourable impression for Draco's sake.' Hermione fished another piece of toast from the racket. 'What I can't decide about is, do we honour her by serving an Italian meal, or do we stick to English, so she feels she's accepted into the family?'

'Or,' said Lucius in a distinctly mocking tone, 'do we opt for neutrality and serve Swiss food?'

Severus harrumphed. 'There is no such thing as Swiss food.'

'There is cheese fondue for one, I'll have you know,' Lucius replied tartly, 'and there's Rösti, and…' He shrugged.

'Not much good for leftovers, if you ask me. Scratching burned cheese gunk out of a pot and eating it with cold, greasy potatoes isn't my idea of a breakfast.'

Hermione merely sighed and got up, intending to retire to her study and ruminate over possible menus.

* * *

'You haven't told me much about your grandfather, amore,' said Luisa, when Scorpius produced the portkey that was to take them to their destination.

'There isn't much to tell really.' Scorpius was grateful he wasn't under a Pinocchio charm, because the tip of his nose would already have arrived in Kent. 'I think it's better if you form your own opinion. I wouldn't want you to be prejudiced,' he added virtuously.

'Is prejudiced good or bad?'

'Neutral, I'd say. You'll see for yourself.'

'Is he married?'

'Yes,' Scorpius lied through his teeth (nose would just have crossed the Channel). 'I'm sure you'll like her. And there's this distant relative staying with them, just for a bit of course, so I suppose you'll be meeting him as well.' (Nose just above Paris, if you look through the window on your right side, you can see the Eiffel Tower)

'Oh, that's nice. So it will be a family dinner, yes?'

'Absolutely. Strictly family.' He activated the portkey. 'Ready? Let's go then.'

Oh, dio mio!' Luisa exclaimed when they materialized in the garden of the mansion, 'This is the most beautiful garden I've ever seen! Look at those – what are they?'

'No idea,' Scorpius said, busy storing the portkey in his pocket. 'You'll have to ask Uncle Severus-' He stopped abruptly. But too late, the words were out already.

'Your uncle? So he's not that distant a relative, is he?'

'Well, you know how it is with family – everybody is an uncle, even if in reality they're your great-aunt's cousin seven times removed. It's an English habit,' he added, for verisimilitude. Having successfully circumnavigated this cliff, Draco vowed to watch himself more closely. He gallantly offered Luisa his arm, and they walked towards the house.

Their three hosts came to greet them in the entrance hall. With the introductions duly finished, Hermione asked them into a small salon for aperitifs. They trooped after her obediently – Luisa darting glances here and there, trying to take in as much as possible – with Severus and Scorpius bringing up the rear.

'You look well-fed,' Scorpius remarked.

Severus smiled. 'You know how it is – the sex is good, but the food even better… Once I discovered my hedonistic side, there was no holding me back.'

'Speaking of sex' – Scorpius stopped just outside the salon and grabbed Severus's elbow – 'do you think you might… I mean, there's no need, really, for Luisa to know that the three of you…' He fell silent, shooting Severus a look of pure desperation.

'You're talking to the wrong person, my dear boy. I'm not the indiscreet one in this relationship. It's Lucius, and I'd better warn you about any such requests to him. He'd be doubly indiscreet, just to spite you.'

'Merlin help me,' Scorpius muttered.

* * *

The dinner – half-Italian, half-English – was progressing in a very satisfying manner. Hermione, who by dint of sheer stubbornness had indeed become a perfect hostess, merely to spite Lucius's pureblood friends, was quite happy with her little soirée. Even Lucius and Severus were on their best behaviour and hadn't yet engaged in one of their verbal sparring matches.

The fish plates were being cleared off the table, and the house elves prepared to serve the main course. There was a brief pause in the conversation.

'Luisa, dear,' Hermione said, 'I think I haven't asked you about your family yet. What do your parents do?'

Luisa gave her a radiant smile, obviously happy to be quizzed about her family. 'Mamma is head of the Fiscal Department of the Ministry for Magic,' she said, 'and Papa is an… how do you say _orefice_ in English, Scorpius darling?'

'Orifice?' Hermione offered helpfully.

Scorpius choked on his wine.

'Nonsense, my dear,' said Lucius. 'A person can't _be_ an orifice. A person _has_ an orifice.'

'Lots of them,' Severus said, grinning broadly.

Luisa looked around. 'Did I say something wrong? What is orifice?'

'Don't ask!' Scorpius bit out between coughs.

'An orifice,' Severus said, instantly switching to teacher mode, 'is an opening. It derives from the Latin word os, meaning mouth. Orifice, however, although the mouth is one of them, is not the only opening in the human body that word may be used for. The ears, the nose, the vagina, the anus are all orifices – are you quite sure you're all right, Scorpius?'

The last Malfoy scion merely covered his beet-red face with a napkin and nodded.

'Ah,' Luisa said laughing, 'that would be _orificio_ in Italiano. No, papa isn't an _orificio_, he's an _orefice_, which means he works with gold. He makes lovely jewels, you know – Scorpius, what _is_ the matter with you, darling? You mustn't be shy, talking about orifices is perfectly normal.'

'No it isn't,' Scorpius panted. 'Not… not here anyway. It's just not… done.'

'Isn't it strange,' Lucius remarked in urban tones, 'that the young generation, who is supposed to be more open-minded, can sometimes be so puritan? What's the problem with orifices? It's a perfectly civil word, and we weren't even elaborating!' He tsk-ed.

'I think,' Severus said carefully, 'Scorpius might have left our guest in the dark as to the exact nature of our relationship.'

'Oh, no.' Luisa gave him one of her dashing smiles. 'He didn't, you know. He told me that you're a distant relative living with Mr and Mrs Malfoy.'

The smile on Lucius's face grew lupine. 'Did he now?'

'Grandfather, please don't!' Scorpius implored him in strangled tones.

That hadn't been a very clever thing to say, because now Luisa's curiosity was awakened. 'Why? What's the matter, Scorpius?'

'My dear grandson,' Lucius said, gallantly taking Luisa's hand and planting a chaste kiss on her knuckles, 'is very obviously ashamed of disclosing to you, my dear, that Severus, Hermione and my good self are living together in what you might call a ménage à trois.'

Luisa's eyes went wide. 'Really? Oh, that's… that's so interesting! That's incredibly exciting! Why didn't you tell me, Scorpius dear?'

'Because,' Scorpius croaked, 'because I thought it might, well, put you off me.'

'Put me off you? I get to meet the most exciting family a boyfriend has ever introduced me to, and you think it might put me off? Besides' – she leaned over and kissed her fiancé soundly on the mouth – 'these things tend to jump a generation, don't they?'

'That's twins,' Scorpius said with all the authority he could muster. 'But, come to think of it, I know this really nice guy, Hugo Weasley…'


	5. Chapter 5

THE PERFECT PLACE

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never seen as many students as after the Second Voldemort War. Seven years later, the wizarding world had to face the problem of unemployment for the first time. Many of the young job-seekers applied to the Ministry for Magic, and the Ministry reacted promptly, i.e. about five years later. They invented the sabbatical.

The sabbatical wasn't really intended for anybody higher-ranking than worker bees, but Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, wasn't the kind of person to be deterred by that kind of argument. She successfully fought for her chance at a sabbatical and, needless to say, she won. This meant that she had to work four years being paid only eighty percent of her salary and then got to enjoy a whole year of freedom at the same pay. Being head of department, she could easily afford the twenty-percent decrease. Besides, she hadn't taken more than ten days of paid leave in all her thirteen years of service. Added to the sabbatical, the accumulated paid leave allowed her one and a half years of freedom.

Hermione didn't have any high-flying plans for those eighteen months. She merely wanted to leave the city – her flat was to be rented out to one of the lucky guys who'd secured a one-year internship at the ministry – and stay in a nice cottage somewhere in the country, painting, reading and relaxing.

Six months before the start of her sabbatical-cum-holiday, Hermione therefore began to look out for a suitable object. She did a lot of Apparating during that period, because the Right Cottage was hard to find. When she'd almost given up hope and resigned herself to island-hopping in the Aegean, she fell in love, hopelessly and irrevocably.

It was the cottage of her dreams. It was about three hundred years old, but had been carefully modernized. The thatched roof was there, and the enchanted garden was there, and two lavish bathrooms on the upper floor. There were hardwood floors and sparse but very tasteful furniture, fireplaces that actually worked, and a kitchen that screamed 'Master Chef' at the top of its lungs. It was just simply perfect, and Hermione would have been ready to pay whichever amount of rent the landlord asked.

She did what they always tell you not to do: she jumped up and down and told the estate agent that she _had_ to have this cottage, whatever the price. The agent smiled thinly and got on the phone. Two days later Hermione signed the contract.

The contract had already been signed by the landlord – a pretentious signature, she thought, with lots of flourishes. It looked as if it had been made by means of a quill instead of a fountain pen, and for a moment she was sure that it read Lucius Malfoy. But that was of course nonsense, because the estate agent was a Muggle, and even though the cottage was in Wiltshire, the probability of Malfoy renting out cottages through a Muggle estate agency was less than nil.

On 15 May, Hermione Granger arrived at her new home with fifty boxes full of books, two boxes filled with clothing and a wicker basket full of very pissed-off Kneazle. She'd also brought coffee, a few packets of spaghetti, ten jars of pesto, two bottles of olive oil, ten of red wine, a bottle of shower gel, forty cans of cat food, a bottle of shampoo and five of conditioner (her hair was still unmanageable), a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and five packets of floss. She'd decided not to move out of her Garden of Eden for at least two weeks, and since that garden made up what it lacked in cherubim and snakes by an ample supply of tomatoes, herbs and fruit, she had all she needed. The olive oil worked nicely as a substitute for body lotion, after all.

The realization that in the middle of May, tomatoes are small green balls unfit to be eaten did little to dampen her enthusiasm, as did the discovery that apples, although always in supply at supermarkets, aren't really edible before autumn. But the first strawberries were pushing their blushing faces up through the greenery, the basil, parsley, chives and mint were growing faster even than her hair, and watching the miniature green apples, pears and prunes grow gradually bigger wasn't bad either, because it made her think of autumn and harvest and baskets full of ripe, fragrant fruit.

Hermione's mother was quite an accomplished painter for being an amateur and a dentist, and Hermione had always wanted to try her hand at painting. When she grew tired of pencils and watercolours, there were books waiting for her; Crookshanks, whose good mood had returned with surprising velocity once he'd discovered that the world held such things as live mice, was always ready for a cuddle, and she desperately needed to catch up on sleep.

Spaghetti al pesto for lunch and dinner were getting slightly tedious, mostly because she'd forgotten to pack any salt. But pasta with olive oil and chives was just lovely, and once she discovered the nuts somebody had stored in the attic, she greatly enjoyed pasta with a mix of parsley, olive oil and nuts she'd crushed in the mortar. Salt would have made it even better, but then one couldn't have everything. After all, she'd had the foresight to pack the wine.

She'd been enjoying her version of Robinson Crusoe – with Crookshanks as a very lazy but uncharacteristically affectionate Friday – for ten days, when somebody intruded into this bucolic idyll. According to sod's law, the knock on her door resounded through the cottage when a) she was clad in a pair of old pyjama bottoms and a top whose original colour couldn't have been made out even by an expert, b) she'd had to brush burs out of her hair and was looking like a maenad, c) she was in the process of crushing more nuts with olive oil and parsley and therefore sweating like a horse.

So she ignored the first knock, but when the unknown visitor knocked again, a bit more forcefully, curiosity won over reluctance, and she went to open the door.

'Oh, bloody hell,' she said, recognizing her visitor in an instant, 'I knew it was your signature on the contract!'

'In spite of being quite sure, madam, that the signature on the contract was actually yours, I don't feel compelled to greet you with invectives,' said the blond man on the doorstep.

'Oh, stop being patronizing. Or are you saying you don't recognize me?'

The visitor bent down and sideways, in order to catch a glimpse of the face under the tangled hair. With a sigh, Hermione grabbed a bunch of curls and pulled them back, out of her face. Realizing that this gesture, meant for easier identification, gave Malfoy a prime view of her tits, she quickly let the curtain down again and stood before him, arms crossed and radiating stubbornness.

'Hermione Granger?'

'The very same. Imagine the hair pulled back, these clothes gone-'

'Oh, I'd love to, but wouldn't that be a little disrespectful?'

'I meant,' Hermione said through clenched teeth, 'replacing them with Ministry robes. So I'd be easier to recognize.'

'I'm usually better at recognizing women without their robes.'

She snorted. 'I bet you are. Not me, though.'

'No, not as far as I can remember.' He gave her a naughty smile. 'Anyway, I have made it a habit to look in on my tenants after ten days or so, merely to make sure they have everything they need. And, of course' – he bent down to pick up a small basket – 'to bring the usual gifts of welcome.'

'So that's why you're wearing Muggle clothes!'

'Yes, well, it wouldn't do to appear on their doorstep in wizarding attire. I had no idea I was going to find a witch here, of course.' He held the basket out to her.

'This' – Hermione pointed at a pretty porcelain box – 'this wouldn't happen to contain salt?'

Lucius nodded. 'Bread and salt, the customary gifts of welcome.'

'Salt! Oh, you have no idea…' Hermione fell silent, contemplating the box with a besotted smile.

'Miss Granger, are you quite all right?'

'Yes, of course, it's just that I forgot to pack the salt, and – never mind. Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'If it isn't too much trouble,' he said politely.

'Not at all. I was going to make some for myself anyway.'

On the short way to the kitchen, a silent but nonetheless dramatic battle was going on in Hermione's mind. Common sense (He's Malfoy! He's bad and dangerous!) was having it out with politeness (You don't just shut your door in people's faces, no matter who they are!); hormones (Oh my god, have you seen that body? In nothing but a pair of trousers and a linen shirt! He's fucking gorgeous!) were pitched against professional ethos (You're the bloody police! You can't take up with a criminal!), and greed (He brought salt! Salt and bread! Dinner's going to be heaven!) was fighting arrogance (We don't need his stupid presents!).

As they reached the kitchen, hormones and greed had butchered their adversaries, and common sense and politeness had declared a temporary truce due to heavy losses on both sides.

Hermione heard a yelp and turned round. Malfoy was standing right behind her and pointing at something rather gory-looking under the table. 'Miss Granger,' he said, 'there is a perfectly good butcher down in the village. Don't you think that eating mice is taking frugality a bit far?'

He was looking a little green round the gills. Hermione found that rather endearing. 'That was Crookshanks. He's discovered mice in his old age but can't quite get round to eating them. It's the chasing that's fun, I suppose, but when it comes to eating, he prefers the good old tinned food.' She disposed of the corpus delicti with a flick of her wand. 'Would you like to take your coffee in here or outside?'

'Outside, please. The garden is so beautiful at this time of year.'

'Yes, isn't it? How come you're letting the cottage to Muggles, through a Muggle estate agent?'

'That's pretty obvious, I should think. If one has the choice between thirty thousand and sixty million potential customers, one would be an idiot to choose the smaller target group, I daresay.'

'Yes, of course, but…'

'Oh, I see. Well, Miss Granger, maybe it is time that you got rid of your prejudice. I did it, and I am quite sure you can do the same.'

Hermione filled the coffee pot with boiling water and slowly turned round to face Malfoy. 'That's a bit rich, don't you think? Prejudice implies lack of knowledge of the facts as they really are. You thought Muggles lived on trees and communicated by grunts. I know for a fact what you did.'

'What I did, yes. But does that justify your assumption that I'm still the same?'

'N-no,' she admitted. 'No, it doesn't.' Busying herself with arranging everything on a tray, she asked, 'So you are saying that you have changed?'

'What I am saying, Miss Granger,' Lucius replied calmly, rising from his chair to hold the door open for Hermione, 'is that you might want to judge for yourself. No biscuits?'

'I'm afraid I don't have any.'

Lucius smiled. 'May I?' He fished a small silver bell from his trouser pocket and rang twice. A house elf, clad in neat little trousers and a waistcoat, appeared with a crack.

'Yes, Mr Malfoy?'

'Be so good as to fetch a tin of the biscuits you baked yesterday, Nobby.'

'Right away, Sir.'

Lucius caught the tray as it slipped from Hermione's hands. 'What a shame it would be to waste all this coffee,' he remarked conversationally and preceded his speechless hostess out into the garden.

'He's… He's a free elf!'

'And a very good one, too. I pay him five galleons a month, plus food, clothing and accommodation. The biscuits alone would be worth ten galleons a month, but don't tell him I said that. I might give him ideas.'

Hermione became aware that she was still shaking her head and probably looking like one of those hideous miniature dogs people insisted on putting in their cars. She sat down heavily and tried to come to grips with what she'd just seen. Malfoy's polite Thank You, when Nobby brought the biscuits and arranged them neatly on one of her plates, didn't really help.

'You're wearing Muggle clothes,' she said tonelessly when the elf had gone, 'and you're polite to your paid house elves, and you're being civil to me – I mean, you don't seem to have thought Mudblood even once… You _are_ Lucius Malfoy, aren't you?'

'I most certainly am. But, just as I said, things do change, and so do people. But I assure you that I still don't need to make an appointment when I want to speak to the Minister, and that goes for the Muggle Prime Minister as well.'

'If you can't beat them, join them,' Hermione said, more to herself than to her guest.

'Quite so, Miss Granger. Now, why don't you tell me how you came to choose this pretty little place?'

* * *

Since he didn't have any hair to tear at, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic and Hermione's boss, would probably have banged his head against the wall, had he known that the Head of Magical Law Enforcement had accepted an invitation to dine at Malfoy Manor. But, as the Russians used to say, The sky is high, and the Tsar is far away. So Hermione had agreed to come over for dinner, because he'd really surprised her that morning. Or that was what she kept telling herself. The real reason was that she hadn't had any sex in months, something that tended not to bother her overly much so long as no potential partner was in sight. Malfoy, though, had been very much in sight, and the silhouette of his torso through the white linen shirt and the way his trousers displayed his arse and legs had reminded her of just how long she hadn't felt hands on her bare skin.

He met her at the hedge that separated the cottage's ample garden from the adjacent park of Malfoy Manor and inquired whether she'd mind walking up to the hose instead of Apparating. It was a fine evening, balmy with a slight cool edge, and so they walked.

'These,' Lucius said, pointing at the mole hills that marred the green perfection of the lawn, 'are driving me crazy. It seems that my lawn, and my lawn alone, is attracting all the moles of Wiltshire. Nobody else has them, they're all here, and sometimes I think I can hear them laugh at me.'

'That's probably the mole-less neighbours laughing. And of course they're all on your lawn.'

'I am not quite sure I understand.'

'It's the wards, Mr Malfoy. Haven't you seen that there are none in the outskirts of the park? The hills start right where the wards are. I could feel the tingle, and that was exactly when I tripped over the first mole hill.'

'Would this be a theory of your own, or knowledge supported by research?'

'Why would that make any difference?'

'Well, if it was more or less common knowledge, I would hate not to have come across it myself.'

'I know the feeling. But still your anxious heart, Mr Malfoy, because the knowledge is by no means common. Do you remember the attempted break-in at Gringotts, about three years ago?'

'I can't say that I do, no.'

'Well, it wasn't much publicized, because we feared copycats and kept the details well hushed-up. Anyway, there was this guy who thought he could get into Gringotts by using a large number of Nifflers. The idea wasn't a new one, that's why Nifflers are Class A untradeable magical creatures, and if you want a pet Niffler, you'll have to jump a lot of bureaucratic hurdles.

'So this clever guy had the idea to create his own Nifflers, and he hit upon the solution by reading up on them. There are very few books about magical palaeozoology, and since we caught that guy, they've all been confiscated and moved to the ministry.

'So, to go back to the Nifflers: in the beginning, they were just simple moles. Somehow though, a part of the population was being constantly exposed to a strong magical field – maybe even during the foundation of Hogwarts, but that's not sure – and so they gradually changed. They grew bigger, for one, and they absorbed the magic. Maybe this original Niffler population lived in an area where gold ore wasn't far beneath the ground. This would contradict the Hogwarts theory, by the way. Or maybe there was another reason for Nifflers specializing, so to speak, in gold.

'Whatever it was, our clever guy thought he'd repeat in controlled circumstances what nature had done on her own. He set up a magical field in his garden, and lo and behold, moles just crowded into it. So all he had to do was make sure that the little beasties crossed and re-crossed the lines he'd drawn across the field, and that there were a few galleons on their path. It took him a few years, but in the end he had enough Nifflers to try and break into Gringotts.'

'You certainly know how to tell a story, Miss Granger,' Lucius said. They had arrived at the entrance door of Malfoy Manor, and he gestured for her to precede him into the entrance hall. 'Now we shall have dinner, and maybe we can devise a way to get rid of those little magic-addicts.'

He led her past the main staircase that led up to the first floor, and through a corridor to the back of the house, from which they emerged onto a large terrace with a stone balustrade overlooking the park. 'I thought we ought to have dinner out here,' he said and pulled out a chair for her, 'and when it gets too cold, we can go inside for dessert and coffee.'

And hopefully sex, Hermione thought, careful not to meet his eyes. You never knew with those ex-Death Eaters. Legilimency was a skill they'd cultivated, and she wasn't sure if a Reformed Malfoy was reformed enough to withstand that particular temptation. Besides, she was sure she looked nice enough to inspire naughty thoughts. His eyes repeatedly straying to her breasts – she wasn't wearing a bra, and the cool evening air was making her nipples quite visible – were proof enough.

Nobby served the starters, and Malfoy filled their glasses with a nice, crispy white wine. 'So,' he said, 'do you think you could help me with those little buggers, pardon my language?'

Hermione nodded. 'It would be a tricky bit of work, but I'm sure I could.' She took a sip of wine. 'Mmh, this is lovely. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer just to keep a few cats?'

His face became a grimace of disgust. 'I tried that, believe me. But the sight of murdered moles all over my carpets was a bit much. I also tried simply Accio-ing them, putting them in a basket and shipping them off, but that was a short-lived solution.'

The thought of a few dozen moles flying towards Malfoy made Hermione snort into her wine glass.

'It's not that funny,' Lucius said, piqued.

'Oh, it is, if you're the one watching. No cats, then, and no Accio. Although we'll have to clean out the area, just once, after changing the wards.'

Lucius looked alarmed. 'Changing the wards? Well, that would be, as you said, tricky work.'

'Oh yes. But think of the benefits. Plus, if we worked together, it would take us only a few hours, maybe a day at the most.'

He shot her a half-lidded glance. 'You would be willing to help me?'

'Of course I would. I developed the Niffler-repelling charm for Gringotts – why they hadn't put one in place ages ago still beats me – and it takes but a few minor alterations to adapt it to moles. They're relatives after all.'

* * *

'I could've sworn,' Hermione said to Crookshanks, who was curled up in her lap, 'that he was going to kiss me when we said good bye at the hedge.'

Crookshanks opened one lazy eye and purred.

'But then, you know, I'm the Supreme Law Enforcer, so maybe he was a bit hesitant. I mean, if I had a shady past, I'd hesitate to kiss the Home Secretary, even if I fancied him.'

Crookshanks re-closed the eye and curled up more tightly, with one paw across his nose.

'I think he finds me attractive. Well, I know I find him attractive. I must have emitted pheromones like… well, whatever emits lots of pheromones. That's the thing with robes, you know. They do have a certain appeal, but when it comes to judging what's beneath them, a girl might be in for a nasty surprise. Muggle clothes are much better that way. You should've seen his legs – well, I suppose they wouldn't have attracted you the same way as me.'

Crookshanks extracted his tail from under his body, twitched it a bit and then let it flop gracefully across Hermione's thighs.

'And tomorrow,' she said, scratching the Kneazle behind his ears, 'tomorrow we're going to start working on his wards. Stands to reason that he has to invite me to dinner again, to say thank you, and maybe he won't be so shy then. Or maybe I'll just jump him. He can't very well call Law Enforcement, now can he?'

* * *

'I hope I'm not too early,' Lucius said when Hermione opened the door for him the next morning.

'Not at all. I'm all ready to go.' She showed him a small roll of parchment. 'I've altered the charm, so we just have to weave it into your wards.'

'That, I'm afraid, is more easily said than done. I think I ought to explain the wards to you first – their structure is quite complex, and we don't want any nasty surprises, do we?'

'We certainly don't. Would you mind sitting in the kitchen while we talk? It's still a bit cool outside, and the kitchen table makes a perfect work surface.'

They sat down next to each other, each with a cup of coffee, and Hermione could hardly resist the impulse to bury her nose in his neck. He smelled of sun and fresh air after the walk from the Manor down to the cottage, and underneath those scents there was the aroma of clean hair and skin mingling with very sparingly applied cologne. She could have devoured him then and there.

Restraint didn't become much easier to achieve when he took a quill, dipped it into the inkpot and began drawing a diagram. A sideways glance at his back didn't help either. He was leaning forward, and the shirt was clinging nicely to his shoulders and upper back. Hermione felt her mouth beginning to water. She forced her eyes away from his body and towards his face, but that only meant that she got a good view of his left ear and of the strong, clean-shaven line of his jaw.

She either had developed a sudden knack for hypnotizing people, or the pheromones were doing their job, because Malfoy turned to look at her and thus found her parted lips only inches from his face.

With her eyes so close to his face, Hermione saw the pupils dilate and contract, and the subtle play of muscles in his jaw, and she fleetingly thought, Oh, sod it all! before she dived in for a kiss. Their position was a little awkward, and so was the first kiss, but Lucius hoisted her up and onto his lap, and from then on things progressed very nicely. Somehow she'd come to sit on the edge of the table, with Lucius standing between her parted legs, and they might have gone all the way, had not Hermione's elbow encountered the sharp end of a quill when she was lowering herself to lie back.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, half laughing, half howling with disappointment, when Lucius took a step back to rub his nose, which had made painful contact with her forehead. 'Does it bleed?'

Lucius shook his head. 'No it doesn't, only hurts like hell. Which goes to show that intercourse must not be undertaken in dangerous surroundings. A kitchen table bristling with quills certainly qualifies as dangerous.' He grinned at her, let go of his nose and pulled his shirt out of his trousers to cover his obvious arousal. 'But,' he continued, taking a step towards the table and grabbing Hermione's buttocks with reassuring enthusiasm, 'maybe we might continue this in a more suitable environment?'

'What about the moles?' Hermione murmured into his chest.

'There is a very nice mole on my left buttock, so perhaps you'd like to start with that?'

'Excellent idea. Accio blanket!'

Lucius ducked just in time, when a neatly folded blanket came hurtling through the kitchen door and into Hermione's waiting hand. 'What on earth was that for?'

'Everybody has their little fantasies,' she said and winked at him. 'I've always wanted' – she hopped off the table and took his hand – 'to have sex on the lawn, with the sky above me and the air caressing my naked skin. Come on!'

'There are ants!' he complained.

'Not on this blanket. Anti-vermin charms, anti-humidity charms, anti-wrinkle charms. So we won't end up in a cocoon.'

'A woman who thinks of everything. I like that. Do you have a particular spot in mind?'

Hermione nodded and led him to a secluded place between apple trees, where the grass was short and the ground even. 'What about this?' She unfolded the blanket. 'And now' – she stripped off her underpants and flung them away – 'let me get that blasted shirt off you.' She made quick work of the buttons, and the shirt followed the panties. 'Now let's get rid of these trousers' – they described a graceful arc and joined the shirt – 'and briefs. Holy stars, did you use an engorgement charm or what?'

'Completely unnecessary,' Lucius said smugly. 'Just like mother nature made me. You like what you see, I trust? Oh yes, you obviously do,' he panted, when Hermione went down on her knees to demonstrate just how much she liked what she saw. 'Merlin, your tongue moves like a serpent!' His knees gave way, and he joined Hermione on the ground.

A short wrestling match followed, as each tried to push the other onto their back.

'_Will_ you be good!' Hermione stared at him. 'I get to be on top first.'

'I don't quite see why,' Lucius growled, when she'd successfully twisted his arm and brought him down on his back. 'And that was an unfair trick! What-' His eyes widened, when the blanket wiggled a bit and then took his wrists and ankles in a fluffy but firm grip.

'A woman who thinks of everything, wasn't that what you said?' Hermione straddled him and rubbed herself against his cock. 'It's all part of my little fantasy. Don't be afraid, though, my forehead bumping into your nose was the only discomfort you're going to experience.'

'I'm not afraid!' he protested. 'Just… well, overwhelmed. Oh ye gods!' He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, as Hermione slowly slid down his cock.

'Would you like me to move?' she asked, grinning wickedly.

'Oh yes, please. And don't-' Lucius opened his eyes again. 'What the hell was that?'

'That was me, moving. Since you asked so nicely…'

'No, not that! The thing under my back!'

'Lucius,' she murmured, leaning forward to gently bite a nipple, 'you're being a very, very bad boy. I don't fall for cheap tricks.'

'It isn't – oh yes, do that again! It's not a trick! Oh, gods yes!! Now it's under my arse!'

Something was moving under her right knee, and Hermione got up with a squeak. A flick of her wand freed Lucius's hands and feet, and together they peered under the blanket.

'Well,' Lucius said, 'if we had needed any proof of moles being attracted by magic, we'd have it now. Good heavens, they really seem to like it.' He scooped Hermione up in his arms. 'This is the agenda as proposed by me: We go up to your bedroom and fuck each other senseless. Then, we have lunch and after that, we tackle the mole problem. Once we've done that…'

'Any Other Business,' Hermione said and kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6

STRINGS ATTACHED

'Call me childish,' Lucius Malfoy said to his friend of old Severus Snape, who recently had also become his lover, 'but I just adore it when they go all uptight and puritan. Those two-faced bastards,' he added and offered the paper to Severus.

Severus gave him a lopsided smile, sat down and grabbed the _Daily Prophet_. 'What are they writing now? "Innocent schoolgirl…" Oh, she won't like that a bit!'

'No, she certainly won't. Speaking of her, where is the supreme goddess and mistress of our hearts?'

'Still asleep. I didn't want to wake her up.'

Lucius grinned. 'So you think we've tired her out?'

'We may well have.' Severus helped himself to coffee. A smile of pure bliss lit his face after the first sip. 'Ah, coffee, ambrosia of mortals. Listen, Lucius, do you think she's going to weather this storm with us?'

'Why shouldn't she?' Lucius replied, shrugging.

'Because good sex may be a wonderful thing, but it might not be worth her future.'

'Don't be silly, Severus. Her future isn't at stake, you know that as well as I do. People are so quick to forget – give it a couple of months, and the whole scandal will have blown over.'

Severus refilled his cup and tapped the newspaper. 'You know that, Lucius, and I know that, because we have the advantage of being twenty years older. But she's so very young-'

'And so very tight,' Lucius interrupted him. 'You know that I'm almost tempted to try some of that filthy lust potion you told me about? I could fuck her for hours on end.'

'So could I. But that's neither here nor there. Hermione, let's be honest, is a young witch of exceptional talent. She'll want to use it sooner or later, and we might be the ones standing in her way. Doesn't that bother you? You've just gone through a divorce, do you want to go through a separation?'

Lucius made a moue. 'Why do you always have to be so tediously realistic, Severus? Why can't we just – oh, sod it. You're right. We'll have to offer her more than sex, if she's to stay with us.' He buttered a piece of toast. 'Somehow,' he said, putting down the knife and reaching for the raspberry jam, 'I'm not quite sure what we might possibly offer her. She's got that independent streak.'

'I wasn't thinking of buying her,' Severus answered patiently. 'Jewels or money or whatever else you used to give your mistresses won't work.'

'Severus, I hope you are going to be a little more constructive, and being slightly less dogmatic might not hurt either. How on earth do you know that money or jewels won't work? Or shoes, for that matter. Women love shoes.'

Severus shrugged. 'Narcissa loved shoes. That doesn't imply that all women do, although I'll agree with you that most of them do. Anyway, I'm just sure gifts of any kind won't work. Not in the long run.'

'Because she's a Gryffindor, and Lily was a Gryffindor, and Lily would've sneered at jewels and shoes?' Lucius mocked.

'Something like that, yes.'

'So Lily is the embodiment of womanhood, and Narcissa isn't? You're being completely irrational, Severus, which makes you endearing but does nothing to help us. So if, according to your hypothesis, Hermione would detest the worldly goods we'd offer her-'

'You'd offer her,' Severus muttered.

Lucius put down his coffee cup with more force than was strictly necessary. 'Oh, that's it, isn't it? The old inferiority complex? Lucius is rich and Severus is poor, and that's why all the girls prefer Lucius? I swear, if I have to listen to this crap one more time…'

'You're also better-looking,' Severus snapped, 'which doesn't really help.'

'That fucking does it!' Lucius hissed and got up. 'I'll leave you to your wallowing, because that's quite obviously what you desire, and retire to my study. You know where to find me, when you've finished sulking!'

The object of their altercation woke up at the exact same moment Lucius stormed out of the breakfast room and strode, storm clouds darkening his brow, towards his study.

* * *

Hermione hadn't slept well, a fact she attributed to the still-unfamiliar presence of two male bodies in the large bed. Not that her sex life had been much to speak of, before she'd given in to a drunken impulse and the lures of the two Slytherins. She'd had sex a few times before her seventh year, but none of her partners had ever stayed overnight. Waking up when it was still dark, and listening to Lucius and Severus breathing calmly in their sleep, and snuggling up to them either to go back to sleep or coax them awake, was completely new territory. It was still too new and in a way too exciting for her to be completely at her ease, but she liked it a lot.

She stretched and smiled, thinking of last night. No wonder her joints were hurting; they'd tried some rather exotic positions. Hermione stretched again and winced. The pain in her joints felt nothing like the soreness that comes with overexertion. It felt like… She resolutely shook her head, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

It didn't work. She was feeling thirsty, and her throat was dry and sore. And her nose was itching.

With a feeling of foreboding, Hermione finally got out of bed, snatched her dressing gown and went to the bathroom for a check-up. She wouldn't have needed to look down her throat with a small mirror; her red-rimmed eyes and the cold sore blossoming on her lower lip would have told her enough.

'Oh, no!' she muttered, and again 'Oh, nonono!' when she became aware of how hoarse her voice sounded. 'Not a cold, please gods, not a cold! I look awful when I have a cold!'

Instead of going down for breakfast, she rang for a house elf, which left with very specific instructions: a bottle of aspirin, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, to which the juice of two lemons was to be added, a cup of strong tea and a bottle of Pepper-Up. When the required items appeared two minutes later, Hermione drank down the juice in one go, ignoring the scream of protest of her salivary glands, washed three aspirins down with the hot, sweet tea, took a gulp of Pepper-Up and lay down again, preparing to fight the oncoming cold with all her strength.

* * *

A quick smile flitted across Lucius's face when he heard the knock on the door of his study. 'Come in!' he called.

Severus opened the door, but didn't step into the room. 'She's still upstairs,' he said with barely concealed worry.

'Let's go upstairs then,' Lucius said, rising from his chair, 'and have a look.'

They covered the last few yards to the bedroom on tiptoes, so as not to disturb the Sleeping Beauty. When they heard the strangled coughing, however, both men exchanged alarmed looks.

'Did you hear the wards go off?' Lucius asked in a whisper.

'No,' Severus replied in hushed tones, already drawing his wand, 'but that doesn't mean…'

They reached the bedroom door in two strides and flung it open so violently that it crashed against the wall. Hermione gave a hoarse shriek and dived under the bedcovers. After they'd ascertained that no villain had breached the wards and tried to strangle their inamorata, the two men sat down on the edge of the bed.

'Hermione, dear,' Severus said, trying in vain to find a bit of Hermione he could pat, 'I'm sorry, I mean we're sorry, we heard these strange noises and thought somebody had got into your room and was trying to harm you.'

A muffled 'Go away!' was all the answer he got.

'Darling,' Lucius cajoled in dulcet tones, 'you aren't frightened of us, are you? Do come out from under the duvet, my sweet.'

The bundle containing Hermione began to shiver and then emitted noises that sounded suspiciously like crying.

'Oh no,' Severus said, 'now we've made her cry. Hermione, sweetheart, please don't cry. Come out of that cocoon and give us a kiss!'

'Go away!' the bundle wailed, 'Please, just go away!'

Lucius who, in spite of being a vastly improved ex-Death Eater and expert in female behaviour, had an innate dislike of disobedience, was beginning to look quite annoyed. 'I will not,' he said, tackling the bundle and starting to peel the wrapping off an increasingly desperate Hermione, 'be thrown out of my own bedroom. Out you come, you brat, and – oh dear! Poor sweet girl, why didn't you just tell us you were ill?'

Hermione covered her face with her hands and assumed a foetal position. 'Because I look terrible when I'm ill. I don't want you to see me like this!'

'Poor darling,' Severus cooed, 'we certainly don't mind!'

Lucius rolled his eyes and repeatedly tapped his forehead with his finger. Severus shook his head in incomprehension, but not for long.

'You see?' howled Hermione, pointing an accusing finger, 'You said it yourself, I'm looking terrible! Oooh!' She punched the cushion.

'I said no such thing!' Severus protested, in spite of Lucius mouthing, Just shut up! and gesturing for him to stop.

'Did too!'

'Did not!'

'Oh, be quiet, both of you!' Lucius said, his voice stentorian and allowing no contradictions. 'This is ridiculous. Hermione, you need proper care. Severus, go and brew some Pepper-Up.'

'I already took Pepper-Up,' Hermione said, 'I'm not stupid, you know? But it didn't help! I also took aspirin and vitamin C, and that didn't help either.'

'Then Severus will just have to brew something that helps, won't you Severus?'

Severus wagged his head. 'I certainly will, but if Pepper-Up, taken in the early stages, doesn't help, I doubt that Flubegone will be any good. We'll try it anyway. Lucius is going to keep you company,' he said, while fluffing up the pillows and piling them up for Hermione to rest on. 'It only takes two hours.'

* * *

'About time!' Lucius snarled, when Severus returned two and a half hours later, holding a bottle of Flubegone. 'Now she's developed a fever, poor girl.'

Hermione had, indeed, developed a fever. Her face was ashen, with hectic red blotches on her forehead and cheekbones. Small beads of sweat were clustering on her temples and chin.

Severus frowned down at her. 'We ought to take her temperature before giving her the potion. Flubegone can be quite dangerous, if the fever is too high.'

Lucius whipped out his wand and performed the diagnostic spell. '38.5 and rising. What do you think?'

'Better wait,' Severus replied and put the bottle on Hermione's dressing table. 'And tell the elf to bring vinegar, bandages, a pair of thick, woollen socks, a basin with ice cubes and a towel.'

Lucius, who'd always left tending the sick to his wife or elves and who'd never suffered from so much as a sniffle in all his life, looked intrigued and summoned a house elf. 'Make yourself useful,' Severus snapped, looking up from Hermione's feet, which he was wrapping in vinegar-soaked bandages. 'Put some ice cubes in that towel and slap it on her forehead.'

Lucius did as he was told and sniffed the air like a terrier. 'I have to admit to a sudden craving for oysters. All that vinegar… How lucky you didn't put any capers into the bandages, or I'd feel compelled to eat up Hermione's feet. Why are you crying, my darling?'

'Because,' Hermione sniffed, 'because you're being so sweet, the two of you.' She rubbed at the tears, but gave up when more and more ran over her temples and into her ears. 'I just wouldn't… I wouldn't have expected it. I thought we were, we were just having fun, no strings attached and so on, but you're being so attentive, and you don't mind that I'm smelling like a dead mouse, or maybe you do mind, but that makes it even sweeter of you…' She obediently trumpeted into the handkerchief Lucius held to her nose.

'But you see,' Severus said and kissed her toes before putting the woollen sock over the vinegar-soaked bandages, 'we're only nursing you back to health so we can have more sex.' He sat down on the edge of the bed, took her hand and kissed the fingertips, one by one. 'Aren't we, Lucius?'

'Of course,' Lucius said gravely. He wrung the water out of the towel, put on some fresh ice cubes and placed the towel back on Hermione's forehead. 'You're wrong about the lack of strings though, my sweet.'

His eyes met Severus's, and the two wizards exchanged a smile of complicity.

'With strings attached, then?' she said, eyes shining.

'Absolutely. Fast attached. As fast as lightning.'

'White Knight,' Hermione muttered. 'You're so… sweet.' And she fell asleep.

'See?' Severus whispered triumphantly. 'I told you it wasn't shoes or anything.'

'All right, all right. You were right. Shoes wouldn't do any harm though, would they?'

'I don't think they would. Do you think she'd like stilettos?'

'And black fishnet stockings…'

'And a corset…'

'I heard that,' Hermione muttered. 'But I still love you both, sex-crazed bastards that you are.'


	7. Chapter 7

BREAKING THE ICE

'This year's going to be different,' Hermione said.

One last wave, and the Hogwarts Express had vanished from their sight. She took Severus's arm. 'Don't you think so? Now that they're both away for the first time, it's going to be awfully quiet.'

Severus squeezed her hand. 'Awful isn't quite the word that comes to mind. Peaceful, yes. Silent, oh yes. Maybe…'

'Maybe a bit dull?'

'I don't think so. Do you?'

'Honestly, I've no idea. The question did pop into my mind every now and again, but there never really was time to think about it. Or talk it over with you. I always used to tell myself that we'd cross the bridge when we'd come to it.'

'A very wise attitude, my dear, especially since we don't even know if there's going to be a bridge. I, for one, tend to think of it as a well-deserved reward. Just imagine – we come home from work, and we'll actually have time to prepare dinner together. A real dinner, and we can listen to music while we cook, and talk, and have a glass of wine…'

Hermione cocked her head the better to look at her husband's smiling face. 'You seem to have given the matter a lot of thought, my darling.'

They'd almost reached the exit of Charing Cross station, and Severus steered them into a corner where they were less likely to be jostled by passers-by. 'Hermione, you know how much I love our children. I also know and appreciate your part in their upbringing – you could have made it to Head of Department a lot earlier, if you hadn't stayed home for four years. But… How shall I put this? I've had to change my lifestyle so radically… Sometimes, just sometimes I wish that there had been a, well a middle path. Don't get me wrong, I've never regretted a single moment of the last thirteen years, but…'

'You don't need to justify it.' She reached up to put a hand on his cheek. 'It's perfectly natural, and I'm sure our life won't be dull. For example'- she withdrew her hand and smiled up at him – 'we could go home now, change into respectable wizarding clothes and then head for Diagon Alley. Maybe you'll treat me to an enormous ice cream at Fortescue's, and then we could just wander around Flourish & Blotts as long as we want to, buy some books – what do you think?'

'I love you,' he simply said, and kissed her hand.

* * *

Lucius and Narcissa, who had activated the portkey back to Malfoy Manor the moment Scorpius was safely installed in a compartment with two other Slytherins, were having a cup of coffee on the terrace. Breakfast had been a rather hectic affair, with Scorpius dashing in and out of the room in search of misplaced or forgotten belongings, and recruiting his grandparents to help him.

Narcissa sighed and put down her cup. 'It's a disgrace. He's their son, for heaven's sake! They would have had to tolerate each other's presence for _one_ hour – why are they being so stubborn?'

With obvious reluctance, Lucius tore himself from his contemplation of the park and turned to look at his wife. 'Narcissa, dear, I understand your distress, but, as you well know, I cannot answer that question. You talked to Draco, and so did I – well, I tried to. I'm sure Pansy might have come round, had he shown the slightest inclination to compromise. But Draco is… We both know how he is, and who is to be blamed.'

'He is over thirty, Lucius. At that age, blaming it all on one's parents is a sign of immaturity, much as I hate to say it. He's cold, he is utterly unhappy, he is unable to hold on to a relationship, even with his son, poor boy, and he does nothing, nothing to get a grip on himself. He just wallows in his… his Weltschmerz, making everybody unhappy. I, for one, refuse to blame it all on you.'

'Your loyalty does you credit, my dear. But even so, you can't deny-'

'I am not denying anything. What I am saying is – look, Lucius ,we have been over this so often. You almost destroyed this family. Those two years…' She closed her eyes. 'They were hell, and I will never be able to forget them. Of course you were to blame for that. Heaven knows how many times I cursed you and wished you'd pay for it all with your life. And so, I suppose, did Draco.'

'He hates me. Believe me, I know.'

'You think he hates you?' Narcissa smiled and shook her head. 'That's where you're wrong, dear. He may blame _you_, but he hates _himself_. For having been weak, for having let you down, but also for not having stood up to you; it's a complete mess of contradictory impulses. He ought to try to think it all through. But he can't or won't. He is like a black vortex, Lucius, turning around himself, pulling everything down and suffocating it. If only he were able to stop spinning for a while…' She bit her lip and blinked away tears. 'At least Scorpius had a good time,' she said, in a visible effort to steer the conversation away from a painful subject.

Lucius gave her a grateful smile. 'He certainly did. Pity he had too much of the iced pumpkin juice the other day, or we could have squeezed in that last ice cream at Fortescue's.'

'That doesn't mean we can't have it now,' Narcissa said. 'I have an appointment for a fitting at three p.m. at Alphonse's, so you could treat me to a sinfully large ice cream first, and then we might go down to Borgin & Burke's, what do you think?'

'Would you like that?'

'Oh, I certainly would. You lost so much weight playing Quidditch with Scorpius, you could do with some whipped cream and chocolate sauce yourself.'

'I prefer eating them off you, dearest.'

Narcissa got up and went over to plant a kiss on his cheek. 'Everything has its time, my love.'

* * *

Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour had not changed much over the last fifty years. Like the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, Mr Fortescue was less interested in new customers than in offering a reassuringly unchanged environment to his regulars. Since the establishment never lacked customers, this business strategy obviously worked.

For older habitués, who wanted to savour Fortescue's delightful compositions in dignified solitude away from hoi polloi, the ice cream parlour offered a private room. Only a select few were allowed into this inner sanctum of sundaes, and not one of them was under thirty. Had the owner of the establishment ever been indiscreet enough to allow outsiders a glimpse at this handpicked and thus quite small crowd, the criteria for admission would have become obvious immediately: a distinguished pedigree and/or money. Or, if Fortescue was feeling really generous, fame, but not of the fleeting kind the Weird Sisters, to name but one example, were enjoying.

It was the latter that had gained Hermione and Severus admission to the private room. It wasn't that they had particularly sought it; the legendary Fortescue himself had offered them asylum there a few years ago, when the couple had stopped by for an after-work sundae, and Severus had looked particularly harassed by the ruckus made by all the toddlers.

It was a nice room with dark wainscoting and a ceiling of the same wood, of modest proportions and with only five tables. Large windows in the back wall allowed the guests to look – without being seen of course – at the busy crowds in Prodig Alley, a road running parallel to Diagon Alley and home to the London branches of foreign banks, hotels, a few luxury boutiques and head offices of renowned companies such as Firestorm Brooms Ltd.

There were two fireplaces on opposite walls, one for incoming and one for outgoing calls, the black-and-white chequered floor was covered in thick carpets, and the tables and chairs were charmed to change their shapes according to the customers' needs. (Otherwise, Alphonsina Bulstrode would've had to bring or conjure her own chair, in order to house her ample bottom.)

For Severus and Hermione, a chair had obligingly transformed into a two-seated sofa, and the table had separated itself into two small side tables – Severus always had trouble folding his long legs to fit under a table.

Hermione had ordered an enormous composition of fruit, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream and that special sauce that went so well with fruit and vanilla, but the composition of which had hitherto been eluding even Severus's expert nose and palate. Severus was enjoying an equally large portion of chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips and chocolate sauce. The whipped cream had been politely but firmly declined.

'I think,' Hermione was just saying, 'that Olvenskjold's essay on the application of Arithmancy in chaos theory ought to – oh. Oh, my.'

Severus looked up from his scientific exploration of the distribution of chocolate chips in ice cream and went pale. He put down his spoon, dabbed his lips with the napkin, and slowly rose from the couch.

The couple that had just entered the room was looking no less petrified than the two residents.

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the squeak of cloth on leather, when Hermione, too, stood next to her husband. The sound of a pin dropping would not only have been clearly audible, it would probably have made the four people jump.

Severus cleared his throat. 'Lucius, Narcissa. It is… a pleasure.' The pause was minuscule, but definitely there. 'Would you care to sit with us?'

Hermione saw the knuckles on Lucius's right hand go white for a moment, when he tightened his grip on his cane. 'With pleasure,' he replied and offeredd Narcissa his arm.

While the Malfoys made their way across the room, the two chairs next to Severus and Hermione merged into a sofa exactly identical to the one they had been occupying. The table next to them scuttled over and split into two side tables. Despite herself, Hermione felt her lips curl into a smile. Tall men with long legs…

The men shook hands, and so did the ladies. The ladies' hands were formally kissed by the men. Then they sat down, Lucius opposite Severus and Narcissa opposite Hermione. A demure waiter asked whether Sir and Madam desired the usual and was sent on his way with a nod.

Hermione, who'd been craving ice cream since she'd got up that morning, was very much disinclined to just sit there and stare at it. The coupes were under cooling charms, so the ice didn't melt, but she was beginning to feel like Tantalus, because the aroma of fruit and vanilla was tickling her nose and making her mouth water. It is, however, a well-known fact that, if one tries discreetly to eat a spoonful of ice cream in absolute silence, one inevitably slurps. Or, if fate is feeling particularly frisky, one slurps and drops a cherry one one's lap, from where it rolls slowly down, leaving a sticky trail. It's worse if one tries actually to catch the cherry in a misguided effort to save the situation, because then the spoon usually splatters one's clothes with melted ice cream before clattering noisily to the floor.

So Hermione decided to break the silence, even though the Slytherin training her husband had bestowed on her made her aware of this being a sign of weakness and surrender. But she wanted a particular strawberry, and she wanted it now.

Usually, family was a good topic to break the ice. Though with the Malfoys… But then she knew that the couple was famously fond of their grandson Scorpius.

'We saw Scorpius on the Hogwarts Express today,' she finally said. 'Did he visit you during the holidays?'

Narcissa nodded appreciation at the gambit. 'Yes, he did. In fact, he stayed with us for the whole duration. I trust your own children are well?'

The hot potato had been caught but quickly thrown back at her. 'Yes, they are. Hugo, our younger son, is starting his first year. But he resisted his sister's taunts remarkably well – I'm sure Severus played a part in that.'

'I could hardly let my son go off to Hogwarts, believing that they cut off a finger at the Sorting, and if you scream, you go to Hufflepuff.'

Lucius snorted. 'Some things just don't change, do they?'

The Malfoys' ice creams appeared on their side tables – chocolate with chocolate sauce and chocolate chips for Lucius, vanilla with fruit and whipped cream for Narcissa.

Severus smiled. 'No, they don't. Are you still so fond of chocolate, Lucius?'

'Narcissa's admonitions are the only bastion keeping greed at bay. She tells me I'm prone to running to fat.'

'You're lucky to have that argument,' Hermione said to Narcissa. 'I can only tell Severus that he's going to spoil his teeth. But then he invented Splendidents, and so I'm quite powerless.'

'That was yours?' Lucius sat up a little straighter and leaned forward. 'I had no idea.'

'Well, we haven't exactly been communicating,' Severus retorted dryly.

'No. Indeed we haven't.' A muscle in Lucius's jaw twitched. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Severus. 'How have you been?'

'I was lucky enough to have a guardian angel,' Severus said simply.

'So was I. Although,' he added with venom, 'she couldn't save me from Azkaban.'

'Nobody could have,' Hermione remarked quietly. 'They wanted to show people an example. Even if you hadn't been guilty at all and able to prove it, I doubt whether you would've had a chance.'

'So much for a new order.' Lucius's voice was dripping with bitterness.

'The start was all wrong,' Hermione agreeed. 'The way they handled it… It wasn't about justice, and not even about vengeance. I could've understood vengeance, although I'd hardly have accepted it.'

'That would have been of pretty little consequence to them,' Narcissa said. 'If I remember correctly, nobody asked your opinion on the matter, nor Mr Potter's.'

Hermione shook her head. 'It was all I could do to force my way into court, when Severus was tried. The judge could hardly ignore me _and_ Harry, especially since we had Rita Skeeter in tow.'

'You went to jail for three months,' Severus said disapprovingly.

'Yes, well, people have made greater sacrifices for their convictions.' She smiled at him and patted his thigh. 'Even if they were the wrong convictions – I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out quite like that.'

Lucius gave her a rather forced smile. 'How you were able to reach so high a position at the ministry with so little tact is beyond me.'

'I'm usually better at it.'

'You can hardly imagine the comfort that gives me.' Lucius ate a spoonful of chocolate sauce. 'And you, Severus? What have you been doing with your life?'

Severus glared, scooped up a large dollop of chocolate sauce and seemed to relax after he'd swallowed it. 'After the trial I had to return to St. Mungo's for almost six months. Then Hermione told me she wanted to marry me, so we got married. We didn't see much of each other during the first three or so years, because I was constantly out of the country – it was impossible to get a job here, so I had to work for foreign companies. When Hugo was born, we had saved enough money for me to start my own company.' He took another spoonful of ice cream. 'That would be the abridged version.'

'The longest speech I've ever heard from you,' Lucius said.

'You might find me rather changed.'

'I could say the same.'

'Could you indeed?'

Lucius chuckled. 'You'd be surprised, I daresay. McGonagall has even allowed me back into the board of governors.'

'New brooms for the Slytherin Quidditch team?' Hermione asked lightly.

'Nowadays, one has to do better. A substantial trust fund, which pays for the needs of Muggle-born students. The fact that I was the one to submit the proposal seems to have decided in my favour. But…' He briefly closed his eyes. 'I am fed up with penitence. I spent five years in prison, where I lost what had remained of my dignity. I lost' – he swallowed and looked away – 'I lost my son.'

'You still have more,' Severus said after a while, 'than many of the victims. So do I. Once you understand that…' He shrugged. 'I don't know what to say, Lucius. Not really. Besides, coming from me – I'm afraid you wouldn't want to listen.'

Lucius raked a hand through his hair, which still didn't show a trace of grey or white. 'We were friends once, Severus.'

'Yes, we were. And we chose different paths, and we both paid dearly for our choices. I betrayed you, all of you, because…' He fell silent and looked at his hands. 'That, too, was penitence, in a way. For one youthful error.'

Hermione and Narcissa exchanged a look of complicity.

Narcissa put a hand on Lucius's shoulder. 'You are being maudlin, dearest.'

'I'm not,' he started heatedly. Her grip became slightly firmer. 'Yes, I… I seem to be a little out of sorts. I beg your pardon,' he added, bowing stiffly to Hermione.

'I thought you'd had enough of penitence?'

'I didn't mean it,' Lucius retorted, with a hint of the old Malfoy smile.

Narcissa rose from the sofa. 'Lucius, dear, I think it is time to go.' She extended her hand to Hermione, who took it without hesitation. 'We come here about twice a month. Usually on Wednesdays.'

Feeling the minuscule tightening of Narcissa's fingers around hers, Hermione gave her an imperceptible wink. 'I told Severus that we have to come here more often. He is way too thin, and my cooking doesn't seem to fatten him up. Ice cream would be good for him.'

'Your cooking is terrible,' Severus muttered, before he turned towards Lucius. 'It was good to talk to you again. Maybe…'

Lucius nodded. 'Maybe.' He kissed Hermione's hand and stepped back, so that Severus could do the same with Narcissa's.

Arm in arm, the blond couple left the room. When they were half out of the door, Narcissa looked back and gave Hermione a brief nod. Hermione returned the gesture, unnoticed by Severus. Yes, said the nods, their timing had been immaculate. A short first encounter – what would come of it remained to be seen. But the first step had been taken.


	8. Chapter 8

I, CLAUDIUS

Contrary to public expectation, Lucius Malfoy's second marriage had lasted longer than six months. The groom was the bride's senior by no less than twenty-four years, his son was two months younger than his new stepmother, the groom's divorce from his first wife had been a public disaster, the bride was going to embark on a career in law enforcement, which formed a nice contrast to the groom's impressive criminal record… All things considered, those who had bet large sums on a divorce before Christmas (the couple had married at the end of June, a week after the bride had sat her N.E.W.T.s) had every reason to expect they'd win. Not much, because the odds weren't high – it was almost like betting that Christmas would fall on a 25 December. Or so they'd thought.

But the happy couple continued to be happy.

Lucius accompanied his young wife to Ministry functions, obviously proud of the growing number of stripes accumulating on the tabs of her gala uniform and of the Order of Merlin First Class adorning her (admittedly very shapely) chest; Hermione supported her husband's efforts to regain territory in society with a loyalty and aplomb worthy of Godric Gryffindor.

When Draco Malfoy married an insanely rich Brazilian cattle heiress and formally renounced the considerable part of the Malfoy fortune entailed to him, Hermione, now in her late twenties, made Lucius the proud father of Claudius Severus Malfoy. The boy was born on their tenth wedding anniversary, and the party that celebrated both events was already legendary before it had ended.

By that time Hermione was deputy head of her department, and rumours were circulating that she was going to be head in less than a year, after her boss went into a well-deserved retirement.

Hermione didn't do things by half, neither in the professional nor in the private sphere. She had a child, and she wanted to be a mother, but she also had a job, and she wanted a career. Nannies were all well and fine, but only for giving her and Lucius some time for themselves, not as surrogate mothers. So the parents decided to share child-care duties: Lucius, who didn't have to work regular office hours, was to fulfil his fatherly duties (he did cheat, because he made a house elf change Claudius's nappies, but then Hermione didn't have to know about that) three days a week, Hermione two days.

The first time Hermione arrived at the office with Claudius strapped to her chest and a large bag containing baby paraphernalia, everybody thought it was cute and cooed over the baby. The second time there were forced smiles and waves from afar – with good reason, for Claudius could have long-distance-vomited for England – and the third time Kingsley Shacklebolt asked her to his office.

After a few goochie-goochie-goochies and 'Where is my little boy? Where is my little boy?' (which Claudius refused to answer, rightly taking them to be rhetorical questions) Kingsley came to the heart of the matter.

'This is a working environment, Hermione,' he said with a paternal smile (Hermione thought it was patronizing), 'and your field of work is a very sensitive one.'

Hermione, who of course knew what was coming, gave him a bright smile. 'Don't worry. He can't read yet, so the classified files will be absolutely safe. I also charmed them to be vomit-proof.'

Kingsley rubbed his bald pate. 'I must say – and believe me, I really hate having to say it – that I'm a bit preoccupied about the quality of your work. A child is a distraction, and rightly so, he has to be your first priority now after all, and your work might suffer.'

'I don't think it will, but the moment it does, I'm sure you're going to tell me, and I'll redouble my efforts. No problem.' Her cheeks were hurting from all the smiling, but she'd be damned if she lost control.

'Yes, yes of course, I don't ha reason to doubt your work ethics.' Kingsley was starting to sweat. 'In any case, we must think of your co-workers.'

'I don't have co-workers,' Hermione said – after ten years, the Malfoy arrogance had rubbed off on her a bit. 'I have a boss, and I have a staff. The boss is away most of the time, and the staff don't share an office with me. So I'm not quite sure what you're talking about.'

Kingsley wiped his face with a large white handkerchief. 'They feel – not that anybody has complained, mind you – but they do feel it's a little unusual.'

'If nobody has complained, how would you know? A black Minister for Magic was a bit unusual, too, since you were the first – did you ever think of resigning because people found you a trifle unusual?'

'That wasn't the kind of unusual I meant…'

'Oh, that's all right then. A different kind of unusual – would you mind explaining which one exactly?'

The handkerchief, which had lost its starched glory, was now a grubby little ball in the Minister's large hand. 'Oh, I don't know! Look, Hermione, babies just don't belong in offices, that's the gist of it!'

'Neither do idiots, but you seem to suffer them quite gladly,' she replied coolly. 'And now Kingsley, be so kind as to point out to me where exactly it is written that babies don't belong in offices.'

'It's… it's… Oh, for Merlin's sake, Hermione, don't be so damned difficult! It's customary law – there never have been babies in offices, and there never will be, and that's that.'

'I believe you might be wrong on that count. There have been at least three Hogwarts Headmistresses – one of your ancestors among them, I might mention – who had children during their tenure and kept the babies with them at the office.'

'That's different! Hogwarts is a school – children are, I mean schools are a natural environment for children!'

'The governor of Azkaban has a son, aged five, and the child spends most of his day in his father's office. So much for natural habitats.'

Kingsley threw up his arms in desperation. 'I don't know what to say anymore!'

'That much is obvious. But hardly convincing. If you want me to leave my child at home, Kingsley, you'll have to come up with something better than this. And now you must excuse me, my breasts are leaking. Claudius needs to be fed.'

'You see?' Kingsley stabbed a triumphant forefinger at her. 'You see? That's exactly what I meant. Imagine that this was an official meeting – would you just tell the assembled participants that your breasts were leaking? A fine example you'd set!'

'No,' Hermione said calmly. 'I would use this time-turner I've officially acquired, you great imbecile. And leaking breasts are, at least in my opinion, more dignified than a certain Minister's constantly full bladder. Go to St. Mungo's, Kingsley, and have your prostate examined. Or get yourself a time-turner, I don't care either way.'

She left the office while Kingsley was still gaping. Hermione just adored having the last word.

So Claudius grew up in an interesting mix of environments: An habitué of the Ministry for Magic, he knew that venerable building from dungeons to attic (his flying memo to Arthur Weasley 'HELP PLIZ MUM MEKS ME BRUHS MY TITS AGAIN' was legend). He was at home in his father's study and knew how to find his way through the library, and he spent lots of time in the Manor's ample kitchens with the house elves. When he was five, Lucius began to take his son on short business trips with him. And he'd already played endless games of wizarding chess with the son of the governor of Azkaban, beating him most of the time. Claudius was a precocious child and the apple of his parents' eye.

By means of carefully placed donations and services offered, Lucius had been able to resume relations with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He had liked being a school governor, and when Hugo was seven, he was finally invited to rejoin that august body. This meant that Hogwarts teachers became once again regular guests at the Manor. When they'd met Claudius they usually started extolling the merits of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. To no avail, because neither Lucius nor Hermione had any intention of sending their son abroad. Having to let him go for the better part of the year was bad enough.

The Hogwarts letter arrived three days after Claudius's birthday. He went half mad with enthusiasm and incessantly begged his mum and dad for stories about their own school days. Lucius's rather large fund of anecdotes went till his third year – the rest was mostly sex orgies, studying dark magic and making plots for world domination, none of which topics he wanted to taint his son's pure mind.

Hermione thought that illustrating her own school stories with original exhibits would be fun, and so she took Claudius up to the attic, to rummage amidst boxes and furniture and paintings until they'd found her school trunk.

'What's this?' Claudius asked, holding up a battered tin.

'I had no idea I'd kept it!' Hermione exclaimed. 'It's my SPEW collection box.'

'You made people spit into it?' He gingerly put the object down on the floor and discreetly wiped his hands on his trousers.

'No, no. SPEW was an acronym – Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare.'

Claudius cocked his head. 'I don't think I ever heard of it.'

'Well no, it wasn't what you'd call a big success.'

'Like the EU?' (Lucius had rather particular views of the European Union)

'Much less successful. Look at the membership fees they get. No, SPEW was doomed from the beginning. Oh, look! My badge is still there!' She fished the badge out of the trunk.

'Oh, cool! May I have it?'

'Erm, well, I think we'd better leave it here, don't you think?'

'But mu-um!' Claudius could make puppy eyes with the best of them. Claudius had sea-green eyes, which he could make brim with tears whenever he wanted. His father secretly envied him, because when he'd been banished to the guest wing – it didn't happen often, but the happy couple did have their rows after all – he would have liked to puppy-eye his way back into Hermione's bed and knickers. As things were, he had to apologize, which was quite un-Malfoyish and undignified. 'But mu-um,' Claudius repeated, eyes already swimming. 'It would make such a nice memento, and I could always carry it in my pocket – please, mum!'

Much too proud of her eleven-year-old, who knew how to use a word like memento, Hermione gave him a cuddle and said, 'All right, darling, keep it. But maybe you shouldn't show it to dad.'

Claudius's father was an arch-Slytherin, and his mother was the epitome of Gryffindor. Both had instilled their morals (Lucius had of course instilled the new, improved version) into their son, who had become a happy wanderer between the worlds. Phrases like "maybe you shouldn't show it to dad", however, woke the serpent in him. Most children would have asked why, but not so Claudius. Finding things out on his own was much more fun, and he knew whom to ask. Besides, he was going to subject his father to a little test, nothing overly painful of course.

Father and son were both extremely fond of Quidditch, and played almost every day, especially during the warm season. Hermione accepted it with equanimity, sure in the knowledge that Claudius was as fond of reading as he was of playing.

'Dad,' said Claudius, when they'd finished that day's practice and returned to the house and the dinner that was waiting for them, 'why don't wizards have paid servants like Muggles?'

'Because we do things differently. We play Quidditch, for example, and not football.'

'Yes, but that's because Quidditch is better! Why run, if you can fly?'

'Because, for example, you can't break your neck when you're playing football, but you can go to a rather gruesome death, if you don't know how to control your broomstick. That's why I said different, not better.' (Please note the new, improved morals)

'Uh-huh. But isn't paying people better, if they wait on you hand and foot, every day?'

'First of all, Claudius, house elves aren't people-'

'That's not true! It's like in the Merchant of Venice! If you prick us, do we not bleed?  
If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? I've tickled them, so I know they laugh, and I've seen them cut their fingers, and they bleed, although it's green!'

'I do hope you haven't poisoned one, Claudius.'

'Of course I haven't!'

'How very reassuring. Now run and wash your hands, or you'll be late for dinner, and your mother and I will have eaten all the chips.'

It occurred to Claudius, while he was trudging up the stairs to his room, that his father had neatly outmanoeuvred him. It was a setback, but Claudius loved and admired his father very much (not least because Claudius's own hair was a mass of white-blond frizz and nothing like Lucius's smooth, straight mane) and so it was all right. He was aware that he had to learn whatever he could, and Lucius's skilled little manoeuvre was immediately memorized and catalogued under "Diversion tactics, inferiors, for use against".

Claudius hated it when his parents quarrelled, and since he was absolutely certain that the topic of house elves would eventually lead to dad sleeping in the guest wing, he wisely chose not to mention the subject at dinner.

It has already been mentioned that the green-eyed Malfoy scion was a very literate child (not everybody would be able to quote from the Merchant of Venice at such a tender age) and knew how to find his way through a library. Neither Lucius nor Hermione, who both had a history of nightly excursions into the Hogwarts library's restricted section, had ever seen much sense in forbidding a child to read certain books. Claudius had been allowed to read what he wanted, and since he'd always been keen on discussing everything with his parents, there had never been any banned books to lure him into deceiving his father or mother.

So he knew exactly where to look, and what he found left him quite speechless. He was only eleven, and therefore not yet acquainted with the ever-identical horrors one part of mankind commits against another; he was a child and had not yet understood that humans, whether magical or not, never learn from history, because the human mind is so very apt at finding justifications.

There had been a war between wizards and Elves. The wizards had won it by the skin of their teeth and paid for the victory with terrible losses. The Elves had been taken prisoners – one of the wizard leaders had pleaded for a summary killing of all the remaining enemies, but another leader had thought of such a drastic measure as a complete waste. Wouldn't it be much better, he had argued, to modify the Elves' magic, so that they welcomed, nay craved, servitude? Squeezing elfish magic into a straitjacket might not be without consequences for their physical appearance, but then who cared whether a slave had a nose like a pencil or a squashed tomato, fingers like a gecko and a voice like a eunuch? Elf magic was powerful, and once harnessed by human skills and human willpower, just think what they might accomplish for their masters?

Claudius sat in his father's favourite armchair in the library, in a pool of candlelight and in the dead of night, and wept. His father was a good man, and his mother was – oh, she was courageous, and fun, and soft, and she always had answers to his questions, and she always knew when he needed a cuddle or when he needed to be a Big Boy. They were his parents, the sun and moon of his world, so how was it possible…

He put the book back into its slot, went up to his room and cried himself to sleep.

The next day, when Lucius had left for an appointment at Gringotts, and Hermione, now a senior head of department, was having another cup of coffee at the breakfast table, Claudius summoned up all his courage.

'Mum, dad is a good man, isn't he?'

She'd been thinking of finding herself a new secretary, and doing a mental roll call of her department's staff, and so she was sounding a bit off-hand when she replied, 'Yes of course, darling.'

'Mum, you aren't listening. Dad _is_ a good man, isn't he?'

Now he had her full attention, and that was quite a bit more than he'd expected. Hermione's full attention had been known to reduce hardened criminals to tears. 'What exactly,' Hermione said, 'is the meaning of this question? Has anybody been telling you stories?'

'N-no.' Claudius took a sip of his warm milk. Although slightly taken aback by his mother's reaction, he was still aware that it was rather incongruous. 'What stories do you mean?'

'Just, well, stories. You know how people are.'

'No, I don't. How are they?'

'Claudius, don't play dumb. You know very well that we are rich, and being rich always attracts the envy of people who are less rich. So they invent stories about the rich ones. That's what I meant.'

Claudius shook his curly head. 'Nobody's been telling that kind of stories. Honestly, mum. But why does he go round torturing people?' His eyes filled with tears, real ones this time.

More alarmed than she cared to let her son see, Hermione got up and made a brief Floo call to the Ministry, excusing herself for the day. Then she went back to the breakfast room, where Claudius had worked himself into a state of complete desperation. She picked him up – the fact that he let her told her more than words could have – and carried him upstairs to his room.

'All right,' she said, when they had nestled into his bed and made a tent out of the duvet. It was a bit hot in there, and very stuffy, but the tent was a ritual they'd had for years. 'All right. I think you're very sad and upset about something, Claudius, and I'd really like you to tell me.'

Too relieved that he didn't have to bear his grief alone, Claudius spent a good ten minutes soaking his mother's robes with tears and snot. 'It's about the elves,' he finally hiccupped.

Holding his head close to her shoulder, Hermione let out a sigh of relief. Not Voldemort then. She'd always known that her son was bound, sooner or later, to hear stories about his father, but she'd hoped it might happen a little later. 'The elves, my darling? Do you mean the house elves? Does it have anything to do with SPEW?' Hermione wasn't the wizarding world's supreme detective for nothing.

In bits and pieces, Claudius poured out his story and promptly fell asleep. Hermione carefully left the tent, drew the curtains closed and tiptoed out of the nursery. She went into her study and called Lucius by Floo.

'You have to come home,' she said, when Lucius's head appeared in the flames.

'Has anything happened to Claudius?'

'In a way, yes. We have to talk.'

'Is he hurt? He didn't take an overdose of Pepper-Up _again_!'

'No, darling, no. Physically he's quite unhurt and asleep in his bed. But you have to come home now, please.'

Five minutes later, Lucius strode into his wife's study. 'This better be good,' he grumbled. 'I've lost an important deal with Feng Shui inc., and I'm in no mood-'

'Sit down!'

The command had been issued in That Voice, and Lucius knew better than to disregard it. So he sat down and listened to the story of Claudius's distress. 'This,' he said, when Hermione had finished, 'is all your fault. Why did you have to show him that stupid badge?'

'I think,' Hermione said with all the calm she could muster, which wasn't much, 'that you're barking up the wrong tree, dearest. The point is that your son is growing up and developing a sense of responsibility and a conscience. You ought to be happy, not blame it all on me.'

'I don't quite see-'

'You don't quite see? Then _try_ to see, Lucius! Sooner or later, Claudius will hear about your past, whether you like it or not! He'll be terrified, and he'll be angry with you, maybe even hate you! This is your chance, you, you, benighted individual, to show him that you're not a monster!'

Lucius's eyes narrowed dangerously. 'A monster? I love him, I'd do anything for him!'

'I don't doubt that, Lucius. And, just because you're reacting in a completely irrational way, let me assure you that I don't think you're a monster, either. But don't you see the problem? He thinks that house elves are people just like us, and I can't say I disagree. He's read up on the history of house elves, and he was terrified, Lucius! Terrified even to think that his father might have any part in those horrors. He's completely unable to square "father" with "torturer"! And this is your chance to prove you're not. If you don't do something now, any stories he may hear later on will fall on fertile ground. And don't give me that doubtful look, because you know I'm right. Oh, I'm sure you'd be able to talk him out of it, maybe he'll even forget. But the moment some misguided person tells him about his father having been a Death Eater, believe me, it's all going to come back to him.' She took a deep breath. 'Do as I say, Lucius. Free those damned elves and pay them wages. And believe me, if you don't, this time it's not just going to be the guest wing.'

Improved morals or not, it is doubtful whether Lucius Malfoy would have freed his elves and offered them wages through gritted teeth. That final threat, however, was also the final straw. The Malfoy house elves were freed, and Claudius was allowed to give them their clothes. His father had sworn him to secrecy, but the story was all over the Hogwarts Express in less than ten minutes.

And Lucius had the satisfaction to read the following letter two months later, with his wife sitting on his knees in front of a blazing fire:

'Dear Mum and Dad,

the Headmaster is going to write to you anyway, so I thought it was better to come clean first.'

'What a refreshing show of morals,' Lucius said.

'Indeed. Read on!'

'Lucy Stevenson of Gryffindor, who is a totally stupid cow and doesn't even know how to spell arrhythmic, said horrible things about dad the other day, and so I had no choice but to punch her nose.'

'Impeccable logic,' Hermione remarked.

'That didn't make it much better, because she said that was exactly what she'd expected of the son of a Death Eater. So I dragged her to the toilets and dunked her head in and told her that a Death Eater was certainly less disgusting than a shit eater. I know it wasn't very elegant, but I didn't have much time for plotting, so there. Dear mum, dear dad, the headmaster said I wouldn't be allowed to go home for Christmas, but I know you won't accept that. So I thought it was better to forewarn you, so you can start plotting right now and give the Headmaster the answer he deserves, the git.

Your loving son

Claudius'

'What a cunning strategist,' Hermione said and snorted.

'What astonishing candour,' Lucius said and chuckled.

'The East Wing needs a new roof, or so I heard.'

'Mmh. Four thousand galleons, merely to spend Christmas with our misbegotten son?'

'You know it's worth it,' Hermione said. 'And you get extra points for having said "our", my darling.'


	9. Chapter 9

MOTHER GOOSE

When faced with the choice between doing time, yet again, in Azkaban and having _Paeniteo_ cast on him, Lucius Malfoy had opted for the latter. Given the nature of the spell – experts could never quite agree whether to classify it as Charm or Curse – he had thought long and hard about his options; in the end, though, anything had seemed preferable to returning to cold, isolation and the all-pervading smell of overcooked Brussels sprouts.

While it was impossible to withstand the compulsion to atone for one's misdeeds the spell imposed on its bearer, he was free to decide in which order and when to undertake his walks to Canossa. He had imagined that confronting Ollivander would be hardest, and thus the wand maker had been the first he'd sought out. It had been a surprising experience, all things considered, and less detrimental to his already-undermined self-esteem than he'd anticipated. Then he had gone to see Luna Lovegood, and Ginevra Weasley at the Weasleys' family hovel, erm, home, and things hadn't gone too badly. Many more had followed, and mostly he'd had to endure hate and ridicule; _Paeniteo_ had forced him to debase himself before people he previously wouldn't have considered worthy even of a well-aimed hex.

The burden was becoming lighter, however, with every single act of penitence.

His hopes for his marriage to survive the preceding year hadn't been high. He would certainly have preferred for Narcissa to leave him in anger rather than contempt for the "grovelling wreck" he'd turned into, and the fleeting expression of pity on Draco's face, before he followed his mother to France, had been hard to bear.

The shopkeepers in Diagon Alley were beginning to put up Christmas decorations when Lucius found himself only one step away from the _Paeniteo_ spell dissolving and thus from his much-coveted freedom. The one step he'd grown more and more reluctant to take, because even though the spell didn't leave any room for doubting that he was feeling guilt towards Hermione Granger, his rational mind struggled and twisted in its grip – he'd been a bystander, yes, but powerless and without a wand. He hadn't enjoyed the spectacle. Maybe he would even have ended her torture, had he had the means to do so, and had it not meant certain death for his wife and son.

All his efforts were in vain, though. If he wanted to be free, he had to seek absolution.

* * *

It was nothing short of a miracle that Hermione Granger had been able to keep her sanity during the horrifying months she'd spent stumbling from one dangerous situation into the next, and finally into the Battle of Hogwarts. She'd barely succeeded in keeping herself together, and only because she'd had a plan: get through this, get her parents and Crookshanks back from Australia, and then finally go back to normal.

She was surprised, in that detached kind of way that seemed to have become her default state since she'd woken up at 's the day after the battle, to find herself unable to put her plan into action. It had been her refuge, the guiding star she'd been looking at so she wouldn't have to look down on the ground; it had been the one immovable certainty that had somehow made everything bearable, even the _Cruciatus_ curse and being abandoned by Ron.

And still, she couldn't do it.

Worse, she couldn't do anything.

Hogwarts had opened its doors in September, but she'd declined Headmistress McGonagall's offer of participating in the special NEWT-preparation course the Ministry had devised for those students whose seventh year had been disrupted by the war. She'd had various proposals from hopeful employers; she'd refused them all. Her friends were beginning to lose interest, she could feel it and she dreaded it, but she couldn't bring herself to answer calls or letters, or to go out. At least she didn't have to face Ron's sullen enmity, but that was pretty cold comfort.

Moving into her parents' place at the outskirts of Oxford had been easy enough; she drifted through the days, vaguely asking herself how long life was going to be like this, distant, not hers at all.

Christmas was approaching, and Hermione found herself increasingly unwilling to leave the house. Even though there was no trace of snow to be found in and around Oxford, the artificial white powder displayed in shop windows, the fake frost and bluish-white, giant snowflakes never failed to take her back to last year's Christmas and its horrors. She knew, or rather the rational part of her mind knew, that she ought to confront the memory, maybe see a counsellor – but what was she supposed to tell a Muggle counsellor? That she'd confronted a giant snake and escaped Voldemort by the skin of her teeth?

Meticulously cleaning the house, from attic to basement and the Muggle way, somehow seemed like the safer option.

Hermione had just started busying herself with the dirt accumulated in the joints between the tiles in the entrance, when the doorbell rang. She'd sent off a substantial order to Tesco's by internet and was pleasantly surprised that they'd managed to deliver within the chosen time slot. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she got up and opened the door.

* * *

Finding the Granger girl hadn't been easy; in the end, Potter had deigned to tell him that she was staying at her parents' house. Given the still-precarious situation of the wizarding economy after the war, the goblins were sufficiently grateful to him for entrusting them with his fortune that they'd given him the address without further ado.

It was in a thoroughly Muggle area, no trace of magic or magical beings anywhere near it; his feelings about visiting Hermione Granger weren't improved one iota by the realization that he'd have to disguise himself as a Muggle in order to go and find her.

Rather surprisingly he'd discovered, though, that shopping for a Muggle outfit was quite fun. His hair had earned him a few curious looks, but those had been swiftly quelled by his icy stare.

For all their buttons, zippers and belts, Muggle clothes were surprisingly comfortable, especially the contraptions called "jeans". And he had to admit, though only to himself, that not having to deal with heavy robes made peeing a lot easier.

After giving himself a last, critical look-over and deciding that dragonhide boots looked just as spiffy with jeans as they did with robes, he'd Apparated to Oxford, precisely on Hermione Granger's doorstep. He'd also correctly identified the button he had to press by the crude image of a bell.

And no, he wasn't nervous. Not in the least.

* * *

The visceral fear Hermione felt knifing through her belly, a split second after she'd recognized Malfoy, propelled the world right into her conscious perception, shrill and real. Gone was the distance, the vagueness. Never had colours been so vivid; never had the air smelled so pungently of frost and fog. Paradoxical though it seemed, she was grateful, if only for an instant, to feel the impact of _life_, of sheer _existence_, slam into her. Her heart was racing; blood rushed to her face. Her fingers were trembling as they sought for her wand.

Then it occurred to her that her wand was in the kitchen – she could see it clearly in her mind's eye, resting next to the coffee machine. _So this is it_, she thought, _shit, I'm going to die right now, and the last thing I'll ever see is Lucius Malfoy in Muggle clothing_.

Hermione Granger sat down on the floor, upsetting the bucket and spilling soapy water all over herself, and began to laugh.

* * *

They'd made it to the kitchen, eventually, after he'd helped the girl get to her feet – she'd been as limp as a Flobberworm – and explained about the reason for his visit. It was his first time in a Muggle household, and if he hadn't been so intent on preserving what little remained of his dignity, he'd have given in to his curiosity and explored. As things were, he was leaning against the frigiderator (strange name, that!) and doing his damnedest to appear aloof, while Miss Granger was preparing tea.

"Jaffa or digestive?" she asked.

"I, erm, beg your pardon?"

"Biscuits. Would you prefer Jaffa, that's orange jelly with chocolate coating, or digestive?" She showed him the contents of both boxes.

Given that this was his first foray into Muggle baking, Lucius felt that the decision was somewhat momentous. "Both, unless it is too much trouble."

"Not in the least," she replied blandly, and he had the distinct feeling that they were both clinging to the time-honed ritual of tea preparation, so as to postpone acknowledging how bizarre the situation actually was.

The digestives were chocolate digestives and had a very stabilizing, not to say comforting, effect on her, as did the Jaffa cakes. To judge by his biscuit intake, Malfoy was also in need of comfort – Hermione found that thought rather exhilarating. Probably he, too, was a bit overcome by the absurdity of sitting in the armchair facing hers, surrounded by Muggle things, and discussing the terms on which she might consider granting him absolution for the things he'd done to her.

"Anything I deem appropriate?" she repeated, nibbling at yet another biscuit. "Not 'within reason', no 'if's or 'but's?"

"None whatsoever," he replied. "I cannot impose any conditions."

He didn't just sound bitter, Hermione thought; he sounded exhausted. Frustrated. She had to remind herself that he'd richly deserved this, and then some. "Very well," she said slowly. "I'll think about it."

His face fell. That, too, was unexpected – wasn't he supposed to be a master of self-control? Then again, she reflected, she'd been last on his list, so how many people had he already seen? How many pounds of flesh had been extolled? Come to think of it, how had he been spending these last months after the battle? Had he been lonely, too? She really shouldn't be giving so much thought to The Emotional State of Lucius Malfoy, but since his appearance on her doorstep had dispelled the mist separating her from the world, she was feeling a bit like a grey goose chick following around the first moving object it had seen after hatching.

She'd been imprinted by Lucius Malfoy, Mother Goose Extraordinaire. Could things get any stranger? The world had been turned upside down...

And inspiration struck.

* * *

The Transatlantic Portkey Terminal was hidden, very much like platform 9 ¾, within Sidney's Central Station.

Very much unlike their British counterparts, the Australian Ministry of Magic did not have any compunctions about placing two burly security wizards at the exit, who pointed out and corrected any too-obvious fashion glitches. With Hermione in tow and their luggage shrunk and safely in the pocket of his linen suit, Lucius merely gave the guards a curt nod before they stepped out onto a platform bustling with Muggles.

Lucius steered them into a secluded corner. His travel companion, who had shown remarkable panache up to the moment when her fingers had touched the Portkey, had gone very, very quiet. She was pale, her eyes huge in a face that was whiter than he was comfortable with; Lucius felt concern, though more for himself –if something happened to the girl, that was all Shacklebolt needed to send him to Azkaban, whether it was Lucius's fault or not. The Minister had been extremely reluctant to go ahead with the offer of _Paeniteo_ and only been persuaded by Potter, of all unlikely people.

The noise around them was almost deafening; he had to bend down to understand what she was saying.

"I don't think I can do this," she muttered.

Lucius sighed. "Do what exactly, Miss Granger?"

"This." She made a vague gesture at their surroundings. "Go to my parents' house. Remove the charm."

"We had agreed that I was going to remove the charm," he cut her off, deliberately misunderstanding her.

"That's not..." She bit her lip. "You know that's not what I meant. I'll have to face them, to explain..." Her teeth drew blood. "What if..." The lip started to tremble.

He briefly closed his eyes. Was the silly girl losing her courage merely to spite him? No, he was being unjust. Of course it was difficult for her to – and why the hell should he care whether it was? Or whether he was being unjust, for Merlin's sake? Yes, granted, she did look rather helpless and forlorn... What? What was he even thinking? The girl, no woman, fuck it, Hermione Granger had withstood the _Cruciatus_ Curse cast by Bella! Helpless and forlorn? What a ridiculous idea. Yet there she was, looking at him as if she was drowning...

"Maybe," he heard himself say, "we ought to get dinner first, and if you'd like we could leave visiting your parents till tomorrow."

Narcissa had been right. He wasn't exactly a grovelling wreck, but he was certainly losing his grip.

* * *

Hermione tried to look unobtrusively at her unlikely travel companion while pretending to read the menu. Unsurprisingly – Hermione Granger just couldn't do unobtrusive – she didn't lower her eyes fast enough when he raised his, and felt her face got hot. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"You mean you didn't intend to be caught staring."

Arrogant bastard. Suddenly she felt angry – how dare he sit here, calm and composed, making fun of her, when it was because of the likes of him that she'd done that horrible thing to her parents? "And of course not getting caught is as good as innocent?" she said, trying but failing to keep her tone flat and indifferent.

Malfoy's eyes darkened. "Miss Granger..."

"You have no right!" she blurted out. "I almost felt sorry for you, because that... that spell they put on you isn't any better than the _Imperius_ curse! Nobody deserves to have their mind raped, not even you! And then, then you say a few words, and I realize that you haven't changed one bit!"

"And you'd started to feel so good about yourself," he drawled.

"That wasn't-"

"I am aware that that wasn't what you _meant_ to say," he interrupted her. "Nevertheless it is what you said – had I changed, putting me under _Paeniteo_ would have been monstrous, but since you are convinced that I haven't, you have to go back to thinking I got nothing more than I deserved. Which makes thinking of yourself as the supreme guardian of morals a little difficult, doesn't it?"

"What you did was wrong!"

"I don't deny it. Or rather, I don't deny that what I did was the consequence of a, let us say, supremely unfortunate choice."

She flung the menu on the table. "Why do you have to be so fucking cavalier about it all? Why can't you say 'wrong' or 'bad'? Why does it have to be 'supremely unfortunate'? Discriminating people because of their birth is wrong – do you at least understand that?"

"And wiping someone's memory without their consent isn't?"

People were beginning to stare, so she breathed deeply before saying "I shouldn't even dignify this with an answer."

"Let me guess," he said, smiling faintly. "Is it something along the lines of 'this is different'?"

"Of course it's different!"

"Because you are good and I am bad, yes, but try to imagine what you would have done, had you been a Death Eater and aware that the good guys were winning, with possible consequences for your parents. Would you have acted any differently?"

"That seems like a pretty academic question."

"Indulge me."

"If you mean to prove that one wrong decision doesn't necessarily entail only wrong actions..."

"I mean to point out to you, Miss Granger, that one choice, whether right or wrong, made at an early age and not entirely of one's own volition, does not justify discrimination any more than birth, creed or the colour of one's skin."

Hermione contemplated this silently while Malfoy ordered their meal and wine. The smile on the waiter's face seemed to indicate that an expensive vintage had been chosen; when he brought the bottle, Malfoy tasted and nodded. After filling their glasses and putting a bread basket on the table, the waiter vanished discreetly.

Malfoy raised his glass, and she reluctantly mirrored the gesture. "I like it," she offered after a first sip.

"You'll like it even more once it has breathed for fifteen or twenty minutes. Shiraz needs the oxygen. But I agree, it is very good."

More silence ensued; they each had a piece of freshly-baked bread.

"You know," Hermione said finally, "they used to call me the cleverest witch of my age, but picking apart philosophical arguments isn't really my forte. I know there's something wrong with what you said, something like the 'all Cretans are liars' thing, but I just can't put my finger on it. Okay, I can accept that you became a Death Eater when you were still very young…"

"Fifteen," Malfoy supplied, pointedly contemplating the contents of his wine glass.

"Fifteen?" Hermione took a fortifying sip. "That's… that's very young."

"Indeed," was all the answer she got.

She was beginning to feel quite hot and twisted her hair into a tight bun, securing it with a discreet spell after making sure that nobody was watching. There, that was much better. "Okay, so I have to admit that you probably didn't know what you were doing. Or rather that you were unable to see any alternatives. But…"

The waiter interrupted them once again by putting a variety of starters on the table.

"But," she continued, "I'm not quite sure how far you can stretch that excuse. For example" – she scooped up a few grilled mushrooms and manoeuvred them onto her plate – "I don't think it would cover your giving Voldemort's diary to Ginny, to name but one example."

"Why do you think I did it?"

"Well… So you could hurt the Weasleys? And possibly Harry? Oh, and Dumbledore, for good measure, although I'm not entirely sure I bear you any grudge for that."

A fleeting smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Mmmh. You've seen through his manipulations, have you?" Hermione nodded fervently. "Back to my motives, though – I'm sure it seems, or at least seemed entirely plausible that all I wanted was to hurt your friends."

He'd said it without a trace of venom or mockery, and so Hermione felt inclined at least to listen to him. "Are you saying that you had ulterior motives?"

"Ulterior?" He shook his head. "No. Different, even though I admit that I was fully conscious of, and maybe not completely adverse to, the risk for Ginevra Weasley."

"You mean…"

"Hermione, I mean Miss Granger-"

"Oh, what the hell." She took another sip of wine. Whether intentionally or not, Malfoy had got her hooked – there was no way she could resist a good story. As to whether it was true… Never mind, though. She was going to listen to him; the food was great and the wine fantastic, and they had to pass the time somehow. "Just call me Hermione. It feels less contrived."

He bowed his blond head. "Thank you. I feel honoured."

Strangely enough, she believed him. "Okay, so why did you slip Ginny the diary?"

"Have you ever touched one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, even briefly?"

Had she… Hermione gave an unladylike snort. "I… yes. And not just briefly."

"So you know what it does to those who touch it?"

"Even…" She had to shake her head, to dispel the images that came unbidden, crowding her mind. "Even to his followers?"

"Especially to his followers. I would have been able to protect myself, though, somehow. You may or may not have noticed that I was wearing gloves that day at Flourish and Blott's... But I simply couldn't stand by and watch…" Malfoy fell silent.

She had to make a conscious effort not to put her hand over his. "Draco?"

He nodded wordlessly.

"That makes sense. The more susceptible the victim, the stronger is the hold it gains."

Another nod, a brief glance into her eyes. "Yes. It had to be destroyed. I couldn't do it, for obvious reasons, Weasley was too much of a moron to understand that the darkest of artefacts was right under his nose every time he performed one of his useless raids, and I could hardly go to Dumbledore and give it to him."

"Why couldn't you destroy – oh, of course. The Dark Mark."

"Yes. Therefore, sending it on its way to Hogwarts seemed like the best solution."

Had she come all the way to Australia, only to have her perceptions and beliefs deconstructed one by one? By Lucius Malfoy, of all people? Hermione gave an inward shrug and allowed the waiter to top up her glass. "So tell me about the Quidditch World Cup."

* * *

None of the people he'd met in his forced quest for absolution had bothered to ask the one, simple and obvious question: Why? Lucius hadn't expected everybody to inquire after his motives; in fact, he would have rebutted such queries with a few well-chosen words, unless he deemed his interlocutor worthy of an answer. But the Weasley girl, or Ollivander...

He'd never liked being taken for granted. This was exactly what it was, though; he'd been cast as the villain, and he'd done well, and from that moment onwards he _was_ the villain, which was all right until it became a cliché, but once that happened, there was no getting rid of the part. It stuck – worse, it was regarded as an essential part of him, and no matter how much the House Elves would scrub at the leopard's pelt, the spots weren't going to come off.

Lucius shrugged and grabbed the remote control from the night table. Granger, no Hermione, had explained to him how these plastic devices with the strange little symbols worked, and if he had to spend the night in a – admittedly rather acceptable – Muggle hotel, he was certainly going to make the best of it. Times were a-changing; if he meant to be a player in post-war society, he'd better acquire the necessary skills, and those most certainly included a knowledge of Muggle culture.

So, what had the Granger girl told him? This button was for switching on the TV, wasn't it? Suddenly distracted by the memories of their dinner, he let the remote slip from his fingers and onto the duvet.

Sure, she was a self-righteous little thing, full of Gryffindor values and Dumbledore morals, her ego buoyed by the victory in which he she'd played such a crucial part; there was something more to her, though. The self-righteousness was merely an expression of something more deep-seated and less unpleasant – she wanted to do the right thing, always, and she had the ability to recognize that the right thing wasn't always what the so-called good guys had emblazoned on their banners. And empathy. Of that she had more than was good for her. If she fell into the wrong hands, associated with the wrong people, she might easily be manipulated... up to a point, he thought. Not all the way through. And woe upon the unfortunate individual who drove her past that point – there was a ruthless streak a mile wide. Throwing Umbridge to the Centaurs being a case in point.

Lucius smiled to himself. If ever there'd been a young witch worthy of becoming his protégé, it was Hermione Granger. Would she consent to such a scheme, though?

He was still asleep, a smile on his face and his dreams teeming with possibilities, when Hermione knocked on his door the next morning.

* * *

Her parents had chosen Sidney's oldest suburb, Glebe, to establish their new lives as Monica and Wendell Wilkins. The streets and houses reminded her of home, a "home" that had been touched by the Far East and the grandeur of colonialism. Low, terraced houses, some of them painted in gaudy colours, exotic shrubs in the front gardens, and here and there a more stately public building. It was quite charming, really.

In spite of the oppressive, moist heat and the sun beating down on her with surprising force, considering that it was barely past nine a.m., Hermione was feeling progressively colder with every step they took towards her parents' house. She hadn't eaten much for breakfast, just a slice of toast and a bit of fruit, but it was sitting heavily in her stomach. She glanced up at Malfoy's profile; he looked serene and wholly unconcerned – no surprises there, after all he only had to undo her _Obliviate_ to be free of the spell that bound him. Then he would be returning to England; they hadn't yet discussed whether she was going to travel with him or go back later. In the privacy of her own mind, Hermione admitted to herself that she'd rather leave with him, because the thought of spending time with her parents, after all that had transpired, and without his protection...

His protection. What _had_ the world come to? How was it even possible to feel safe in the company of a man whose appearance ten days ago on her doorstep had induced her to believe that she was going to meet her maker? Not to mention that she even _felt_ the need for protection. She still was Hermione Granger, who had lived through encounters with Death Eaters, who had ridden a dragon, who had fought in the last battle... She hadn't changed, no more than Malfoy had, not fundamentally. But even so, here she was, walking next to him and wishing she could just take his hand. And here _he_ was, walking next to a muggleborn witch as if he'd never called her a Mudblood, and he'd been open with her the night before, and honest, well as far as he was able to...

So maybe it wasn't so much that _they_ had changed; the circumstances were different, though, and if a fundamentally changed situation brought to light all these new and unaccustomed aspects of their personalities, maybe there was hope after all...

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she collided with Malfoy, who had stopped in front of a garden gate.

"This should be it," he said.

Sweat was running down her back, rapidly cooling and making her acutely uncomfortable. Suddenly breathing felt like the most difficult thing she'd ever done. "Yes," she croaked, "this is it."

"So maybe you ought to ring the bell?" There was a hint of mockery in his voice, but not the bad kind. He sounded more like an indulgent parent. Mother Goose in a linen suit and highly polished loafers.

"I guess I should," she said and grabbed his hand.

* * *

When he sensed her clammy fingers insert themselves between his, Lucius felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. To be nineteen years old again, just for one day, right there on the cusp between adolescence and adulthood, where having the occasional childlike or even childish moment was still permissible... On second thought, no. He'd rather not go back to that awkward stage, especially since his own father had strongly discouraged childish behaviour from the moment Lucius had uttered his first scream.

Hermione, on the other hand, may have been forced to grow up prematurely, but the child was still in there; usually well hidden, it had obviously just gained the upper hand.

He meant to give her fingers a reassuring squeeze, but they were gone before he could follow the impulse. _Childlike indeed_, Lucius thought and bit his lip against the smile that was lingering there. So he merely stood and watched, as Hermione fell to her knees, sobbing and laughing, and picked up an enormous red cat, no, definitely part Kneazle, that had streaked round the corner of the house and straight towards them. Apparently enthusiastic to be reunited with its mistress, it rubbed its squashed face against her cheek.

"Crookshanks!" she sniffled, "Oh, how I've missed you! Did you miss me, too? How pretty you've become, big boy! Such lovely, soft fur, and you're so heavy!"

Pretty. Love did indeed alter people's perception...

"That's Crookshanks," she said, still clinging to the orange monster and giving Lucius a smile equal parts besotted and besnotted.

"I'd gathered as much," he responded mildly.

"Isn't he a pretty boy? Yes, my darling, you're such a pretty, big boy..."

The appearance of a middle-aged couple on the doorstep saved him the trouble of commenting. Lucius bent down and touched her shoulder. "Hermione, I believe we have company."

He'd obviously advanced from being a mere protector of war heroines to safeguarding their familiars; wondering how long his biceps would be able to withstand the combined pull of gravity and seven kilos of fat part-Kneazle, Lucius slowly followed Hermione as she walked the few metres separating her from the bewildered couple. He watched her as she blew her nose and carefully stored the used tissue in the back pocket of her jeans, and mentally awarded her points for self-control, when she held out her hand to her mother and said, "Mrs Wilkins, may I introduce myself? I'm Hermione Granger, and this is my friend Lucius Malfoy."

Friend.

Who would've thought?

* * *

Mum had cut and dyed her hair. The pixie-style cut made her look younger, more girlish. And she'd lost weight. She had a tan, too, and looked pretty fit.

Dad's bald patch had grown. Funny, the beard actually suited him. She would never have imagined he could look good with a beard...

Hermione let her eyes wander across the bookshelves – so they were still avid readers. Some things evidently didn't change. The tears came with the awareness that a lot of the titles were identical to those waiting back in Oxford. So Dad was still fond of detective stories, and Mum hadn't lost her fondness for Regency literature, or cooking...

"Are you okay, Miss… erm…"

Her nails digging into her palms, Hermione turned round to look at her father. "Yes, thanks. Perfectly all right. I really have to apologize, I can't even begin to imagine what you must be thinking of us, barging in on you like this on Christmas Eve."

"Well…" That smile on her father's face, that was new, too. So open and relaxed – he'd never been like that, not even when he was younger, the Dad of her earliest memories. "I kind of assumed that some of our friends back in England had given you the address? The Craigs, Michael and Heather that is, or maybe the Browns? Christopher and Eileen Brown, not Steve and Dorothy." He laughed, sharing a look of complicity with his wife.

Who was that man? This sinewy guy with the cleanly-trimmed beard and the Australian accent? This man who admitted a pair of strangers into his house and… A cigarette? He was lighting a _cigarette_?

And Mum, her Mum who had taught her that there was something good in everyone, you just had to trust people and keep looking for it to discover it, Mum who'd once guilted her daughter into sharing her _birthday cake_ with a homeless guy she'd picked up on her way home, was she really the same person as this lady with the short, red hair, whose eyes suddenly became cold with suspicion? "You're not from one of those obscure sects?" she said.

How reassuring to see Malfoy, no Lucius, sneer.

"I assure you, madam, that neither of us belongs to a sect, whether obscure or not. We came here to…"

"The cat," Hermione interrupted him, shooting Malfoy an imploring look. If he didn't play along... But he was looking intrigued; he also lowered his eyelids a mere fraction, as if to indicate, Go on, I'll play my part.

Fully aware that she was a terrible liar, Hermione braced herself and prepared to improvise. "We were visiting some friends, who are..." Not patients, no. Maybe they'd started something else, a business, whatever. "...clients of yours," she finished her sentence. "They told us that you're not too happy with – what's the name again? Crooked? Crook-something, and..."

"His name is Crookshanks," her father said. "It was on his collar, but only his name, no phone number or anything. We call him Crooks – I have no idea why he chose to stay with us, honestly, considering that he doesn't seem to like us overly much."

"Nor do we like him much, to be perfectly frank with you," her mother added, frowning. "But I don't quite understand, what could you possibly do about his behaviour?"

"There is nothing we could do about his behaviour," Malfoy said. He was still holding Crookshanks, who seemed perfectly content, if his purring was any indication. That, and the amount of orange cat hair now adorning Malfoy's previously pristine white shirt collar. "This is a pretty special breed, though, and quite a recent one, too..."

"Breed?" Her father snorted. "That's a mongrel, if ever I saw one."

Malfoy gave a theatrical sigh that expressed indulgence as well as exasperation. "A very common error, I assure you. As I said, the breed is very young; having it recognized by the CFA will probably take some more time..." He ignored Hermione's look of bafflement. "We would be very happy if you consented to let us buy this magnificent specimen off you – I'd been worrying he might be castrated, but since he is not, he will be leading a very... how to put this inoffensively..."

"He'll get laid on a regular basis," Hermione supplied. She was beginning to get a little anxious – her parents had never paid much attention to money, so maybe Malfoy was making a mistake, offering them to pay for Crooks. They might become suspicious.

"Oh no," her father said, "That's really not necessary. He's not ours to begin with, and-"

"We've been feeding him for a year and a half," he was interrupted by his wife, "Besides there've been vet bills. Not to mention the chair he destroyed."

"Well, yes. If you put it like that..."

For a moment Hermione felt angry with Malfoy, no Lucius, because he was smiling in a way that made it all too clear that he'd had low expectations, and he'd been right. Then again, she mused, while a substantial wad of dollars was changing hands – Crookshanks had been shoved into her arms, much to his evident pleasure – she'd expected to find her parents unchanged, and she'd been sorely disappointed. Because of her, they had lost most of their memories and thus much of what had made them how and what they were; unhindered by a past that had been wiped out, they'd taken a different road, so who was she...

Well, she was their daughter.

Was she really, though? Biologically, yes, that was a given. As far as upbringing, conditioning, character-building went, though...

No. She was reeling from the impact of the realization, and accepting it would probably take a long time, but she had to face the truth: Monica and Wendell Wilkins were two strangers, similar to her parents in some aspects but different in many others. She wasn't these people's daughter, and even though she wanted nothing more than to right the wrong she had done them, reversing the Memory Spell was not the way to do that.

She'd known the moment she'd seen them on the doorstep, Hermione realized. It just had taken a bit of time to sink in, but she'd acted accordingly right from the beginning.

She had to leave and go back to England, where she had no family.

Tears were tickling her eyes, and she hid her face in Crookshanks' fur, listening absentmindedly to Lucius who'd turned on the charm while he was profusely thanking the Wilkinses and saying their goodbyes. With her arms otherwise occupied, she could only nod a polite greeting to the couple, and then they were once again standing in the front garden.

Lucius pulled her behind a dense shrub and conjured a carrier basket, then grabbed her left wrist. Puzzled, Hermione looked up at him.

"Nine-thirty," he said and cocked his head. "That's what, ten-thirty back home? Just the right time" – he dug into his pocket for the Portkey – "for a little light supper, don't you think?"

"I don't need to eat," she muttered, "I need to get drunk. Plastered, smashed, totally shit-faced, take your pick."

"Mmh, yes, that does seem appropriate somehow. I wouldn't want you to do so on your own, though. Why don't you come to – or, erm, maybe not."

Hermione sighed. "It's ok. Going back there seems pretty harmless compared to the fact that I've just lost my parents, don't you think?"

His expression was perfectly bland, but his eyes gave him away. "I would feel honoured, truly, to have you as my guest. And of course, erm, Crookshanks."

"The new breed." She giggled, surprised that was even possible while tears were still running down her cheeks. "That was quite brilliant, you know? And how on earth do you know about the CFA?"

Even more than by his unexpected familiarity with the Cat Fanciers Association, Hermione was surprised by the mischievous smile he gave her. "I am a man of many facets, Hermione."

Since he was Lucius Malfoy, he didn't explicitly invite her to discover them, but the unspoken hint was nonetheless there, hanging between them enticingly. It was a bait, she knew it, and she was pretty sure she was going to take it.

It was research, wasn't it?

She was quite good at researching, if she said so herself.

THE END

A/N: The title and plot aren't in any way related to Mother Goose of nursery rhyme, pantomime or Perrault-ian fame; the title simply occurred to me when Hermione was thinking of herself as the grey goose chick imprinted by the first moving object it sees after hatching.

Also, I've never been to Sidney, so I admit to having based the description of Glebe on nothing but the results of a Google search. My nephew, who currently lives in Sidney, told me about the summers being moist and hot, so that's pretty reliable information I suppose.


	10. Chapter 10

THE SNAKE THAT WASN'T BRUCE

When the first untraceable poisons had been developed in the late sixteenth century, the Malfoy family had dedicated a part of their ample grounds to farming. House Elves were cheap in those days, so Pristinius Malfoy the Elder had acquired a whole flock of them and installed the flap-eared creatures in a compound, a kind of House Elf Village, between the edge of the forest and the lake; since then, most of the Malfoy elves – except for those serving at the Manor proper – lived there, cultivating the fields, tending the trees and shrubs and keeping all sorts of animals.

Less frugal and more recent generations of Malfoys, who craved the occasional oyster or ten and didn't want to run any risks when imbibing their morning tea or coffee, had expanded and diversified Pristinius' idea: by the middle of the nineteenth century there was no way poison could be slipped in a Malfoy's food, whichever exotic delicacies he or she craved.

Since Voldemort's first and sadly incomplete demise, every member of the Malfoy family had been inoculated against poisons and venoms of any kind, whether traceable or untraceable, with a horrifically expensive but effective antidote, which had to be taken once a year. Their worldwide supply net had become a huge import-export business and one of the main pillars of the family fortune; keeping pigs and growing potatoes on their own grounds, on the other hand, wouldn't have been necessary anymore, but more than four hundred years of farming had become a tradition, and no Malfoy broke with a tradition unless it was to his advantage or necessary to save his life. Or that of his spouse, unless she'd already given him a male heir.

The perfectly kept stables, paddocks and orchards also were the ideal playground for generations of Malfoy children – exceptional though the pureblooded aristocrats may be in many respects, their offspring enjoyed chasing chickens and cuddling rabbits just like any low-born little rascal.

The daughter Hermione Granger-Malfoy had given her husband after two years of marriage was no different, or rather, she was vastly different from most other Malfoy children, but the farm was her paradise.

Afraid even to come within a ten-foot distance of a broomstick, quickly bored with toys both magical and Muggle, reluctant to have her mind and character improved by reading or being read to, the child had an uncanny affinity to anything Mother Nature had brought forth, provided it was alive, didn't carry or sit a broomstick and didn't insist that reading was the best pastime ever.

Demeter Malfoy – her parents couldn't have given her a more fitting name – was happiest when up to her elbows in mulch, or playing obstetrician to a sheep, or cradling something warm and furry to her chest. She was able to tame spiders (Lucius had suspected her of somehow having mastered the Imperius Curse at age four, which was, as Hermione pointed out to him, a totally moronic notion and wrong to boot), play hide-and-seek with Enzo the Ferocious Black Hippogriff and make plants grow by persuading them to do so. (Enzo turned into a snarling avalanche of fury whenever a human being dared approach him, but behaved like a fluffy kitten once he spotted Demeter)

Lucius and Hermione often wondered which whim of magical genetics had bestowed on them a child so unlike either of them; after giving up the research she'd started on the topic as useless and a waste of time, Unspeakable Hermione Granger-Malfoy decided instead to read up on the special magical skills Demeter had developed at such an early age.

If the authors she consulted were right in their assumptions, they were parents to a Chthonomage – rarer even than Metamorphmagi, they excelled in all sorts of nature-related magic, while they often had difficulties mastering the most elementary spells with a wand. If misunderstood or neglected, their skills could become dangerous in the extreme; a powerful Chthonomage was able to cause earthquakes, floods or hurricanes. If properly educated, cared for and supported, though, there was no better healer, magizoologist, or magical horticulturalist than a Chthonomage.

The Granger-Malfoy couple were dedicated parents, and money wasn't in short supply. Demeter therefore was helped, cajoled and lovingly guided towards growing into her unusual skills. Lucius had had a bit of a problem at first with a daughter who made his favourite broomstick sprout branches and burst into bloom; the resulting apples were excellent, though, and after all the child was truly special, and so he soon was proud instead of disappointed that his daughter was never going to play Quidditch with him.

Hermione would never have admitted it to anybody but her husband, but she, too, had had a hard time accepting that her mild-mannered daughter would look at her out of wide grey eyes and smilingly shake her blond ringlets when mum suggested they might sit down in a quiet corner and read a book.

However much they had struggled, by the time Demeter was five her parents were wholeheartedly proud of her and supported her with everything they had.

When Demeter was nearing her sixth birthday, neither Lucius nor Hermione were able to overlook, no matter how much parental love they put into the effort, that the child was getting fat.

Worse, the child was fat on some days, and perfectly normal on others.

Becoming Hermione Granger-Malfoy had certainly changed Hermione in some ways, but when she was feeling overwhelmed, helpless or out of her depth, she still unerringly sought the remedy in the library. As did Lucius, who was also a fervent believer in the power of knowledge, only nowadays "power" had become less of a synonym for coercion and blackmail, and "knowledge" had less to do with people's dirty secrets.

Neither of them had yet openly broached the subject of Demeter's waxing and waning obesity, but one windy afternoon in November, when their daughter had gone off to play with Enzo the Hippogriff, the spouses entered the library from opposite sides and found themselves reaching for the same tome, namely Bilius Poultice's "On Maladyes Magicke and Rare".

"After you," Lucius said, bowing gallantly. They may have been married for close on eight years, but there was nothing like good manners to oil the cogwheels of everyday domestic life.

Hermione was looking a bit flustered. "It's okay, Lucius. Take it, I don't need it urgently."

"No, really, I insist." He plucked the heavy book from its shelf and handed it to his wife. "I was merely intending to look up a symptom I came across in von Jäger's biography of Peter Abelard."

Eight years of married life had taught Hermione almost everything about her husband's tells. When he was looking at her left ear he was always lying. "Oh," she said brightly, "That's interesting. I wasn't aware you were reading it, or do we have a second copy."

It took more than a frighteningly perceptive if beloved wife to make Lucius admit he'd been lying, even though the lie hadn't been a particularly good one. "You are jumping to conclusions, my dear," he said, bending down to kiss the side of her neck. "I read it a few weeks ago, and something I saw in the Daily Prophet today must've triggered the association."

"You're worried, too, aren't you?"

"I think 'worried' may be a little exaggerated, my darling – Abelard isn't-"

"Lucius!"

"All right. Yes. I'm worried."

Although not usually prone to acting the Damsel in Distress, Hermione flung herself into her husband's arms; only his quick reaction saved him from having his right eye taken out by the corner of the book she was still clutching. "Of course you are," she said, raising worried eyes to his face only to see the sentiment mirrored in his. "Nobody would seriously consider consulting Poultice, unless they were really desperate."

Lucius nodded and gently kissed the corner of her mouth. "So why haven't you brought up the matter already?"

"I could ask you the same question. And we both know the answer."

He sighed. "Maybe St. Mungo's would-"

"No! Not St. Mungo's! They're completely unqualified to deal with... I don't want her poked and prodded by a bunch of dunderheads!"

"Now you're sounding like Severus."

Hermione stepped out of his embrace; her right hand rested on his chest. "Can you honestly say that you have any confidence whatsoever in any of the Healers there – if we can't work it out..."

Arguing with her right now over St. Mungo's would be pointless, Lucius knew. The stubborn set of her mouth and raised chin told him as much. Besides, he actually didn't believe either that the Healers would be able to help them find out more about Demeter's symptoms – the child was a Chthonomage, and no Healer in living memory had ever treated, or learned to treat one. So they'd have to resort to literature, which was exactly what he and Hermione had been doing, with no success whatsoever.

"Very well," he said, prying the book from her hand and putting his arm around her shoulders to guide her to the sofa, "let's order tea then, and maybe..." He paused for a moment, to gauge his wife's exact needs. "Some chocolate éclairs? And then we shall discuss the matter like the responsible parents we are."

When Hermione put her plate down after ingesting four éclairs – the elves had outdone themselves today; their creations were crispy on the outside, fluffy underneath, the chocolate mousse with just the right amount of sugar, so that every bite was rich, melting bliss – Lucius poured her more tea and leaned back comfortably with his own cup in hand. "I suggest that we compare our perception of the symptoms first, shall we?"

Immensely reassured by the combined effect of sugar intake and her husband's handling of the situation, Hermione nodded and smiled at him. "All right, here goes: as far as I can tell, it started about four months ago. First I thought-"

"Data, my love, not interpretation."

"Oh, right." She took a sip of tea. "How on earth did you ever succeed in convincing select individuals that you were nothing but an inbred, slightly dim aristocrat?"

"People see what they want to see. The trick is to find out what they wish to see, and show them exactly that."

"Mmmh. Devious." She reached over to briefly touch his cheek. "Back to the symptoms. About four months ago, Demi gained weight; I'd say two, three kilos, considering that her arms, face and legs remained pretty much the same, and all the fat – if that's what it was – was on her tummy. The weight gain didn't happen gradually but literally overnight. She wasn't hungry over the next few days; she ate almost nothing. Her belly shrunk back to its normal size within a week, maybe eight days. Then nothing happened for maybe two weeks, and then the same again, almost exactly identical."

Lucius nodded. "My perceptions exactly. I only have to add that during the days following the weight gain she doesn't move a lot. She doesn't run, as she usually does, and mostly stays in her rooms, playing with Becky. I also asked Becky about hidden caches of food – nothing."

"I asked her about abnormally frequent visits to the loo, but Becky swore everything had been completely normal."

The two gazed at each other, neither wanting to be the first to admit to complete cluelessness.

Hermione cleared her throat, aware that her next suggestion might not go down well. "Don't you think that maybe we ought to ask the House Elves? All of them, including the ones down at the compound – they spend so much time with her..."

Just as she had expected, Lucius sat up straight, eyes blazing. "I will _not_ consult with House Elves on the health of my daughter! It is bad enough that she spends unreasonable amounts of time in their company, doing Merlin knows what..."

"I didn't mean-"

"And I _forbid_ you, do you hear me, I _expressly forbid_ you to-"

"That's quite enough, Lucius."

The spoon was rattling against his teacup; the knuckles of his right hand, balled tightly, had gone white. After a few seconds he had relaxed sufficiently to say, "I apologize."

She nodded. "Apology accepted. Merely to make matters clear, I wasn't talking about asking for the elves' advice. But they may have seen something we haven't because, as you said, Demi spends a lot of time in their company."

"I see," Lucius said in clipped tones.

"Do you have any objections to collecting more data? If it could help us to find out more about whatever it is that's going on with Demi?"

"You know all too well that I couldn't possibly object, not if objecting means that something important might be overlooked."

Hermione put her teacup down on the coffee table and reached for Lucius's. He withdrew his hand, but then he wouldn't have been Lucius, had he surrendered without a token resistance. When she moved over to sit on his lap, he didn't budge to accommodate her and stubbornly averted his face. Well, she knew how to deal with that – she couldn't get to his mouth, but his earlobe, jaw and jugular were very much accessible.

She brushed her lips across the shell of his ear. "I love you."

Relaxing the merest fraction, he sniffed. "I know."

"And I find you" – she lightly bit his earlobe – "irresistibly attractive when you lose your temper."

"Hermione, don't-"

"Because," she continued unperturbed, kissing her way down his throat, "it is in those moments that I realize how much you have changed. I see how much you love me, because you hold back for my sake. Because you don't want to say or do anything to hurt me."

When his arms closed around her in a vice-like grip, she closed her eyes and smiled.

3333

Even people as clever as the Granger-Malfoys are usually even cleverer in hindsight. They may admit, under duress or when they are very drunk, that, even though they were aware at the time that there was a puzzle, they just didn't recognize the pieces they were being handed as parts of the puzzle they were so desperately trying to solve.

3333

A couple of days after the discussion in the library had ended in most satisfying sex – Demeter's sister Calliope had been conceived that afternoon, still unbeknownst to her parents – Hermione had to spend a night at the Department of Mysteries, the better to monitor a critical stage of the potions project she was currently working on with their friend and her fellow Unspeakable Severus Snape.

Lucius was always a little grumpy on such days. Not that he would have admitted to being grumpy; Lucius Malfoy was neither grumpy nor did he miss his wife, nor did he plead repeatedly with her to quit the ministry and just work as a consultant on select projects. Nor were the abovementioned items related in any way, shape or form, cross his heart and hope to die.

When Hermione was absent, waking Demeter and giving her her morning cuddle was her father's duty.

He'd got up at seven-thirty, drunk his first cup of tea in bed while contemplating the fact that it just didn't taste as nice as when Hermione was there with him, and finally adjourned to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. Keeping a regular schedule was an important factor in raising a Chthonomage, and so he opened the nursery door at precisely nine o'clock. After allowing himself to regard his sleeping child fondly for a few seconds, he sat down on the edge of her bed and carefully stroked her blonde curls.

"Time to wake up, my darling," he said and bent down to kiss her impossibly soft, sleep-pink cheek.

Demeter mewed like a kitten and, still half-asleep, scooted closer so he could pick her up. Wrapped in her duvet, she wriggled a bit until she'd found a comfortable position on her father's lap, then yawned hugely and burrowed into his robes. "You smell nice," she said, a bit muffled.

"Thank you. I just bathed. And now I'm very, very hungry. But I decided to wait, so we could have breakfast together."

"I'll just have tea and watch you eat."

"Watch me? You mean you'll be keeping me company."

"No, I'll be watching you. Mum said you eat too much bacon, so I have to make sure you don't."

"Your mother just wants all the bacon for herself."

Demeter peeked up at him with one bleary, grey eye. "Nonsense. Mum can have as much bacon as she wants. She's just worried about your health."

"That is where your mother is wrong," Lucius declared solemnly. "Bacon is very, very healthy."

"Of course it is, or have you ever seen sick bacon? But having too much of it isn't good for you. Mum knows, and you know it, too."

Lucius sighed. "All right, I yield. But what about you, darling? Why don't you want to eat?"

She shrugged, but he already knew the answer. She'd felt decidedly heavier than normal when he'd picked her up; he put his hand on her waist and felt her belly. Circe and all her pigs – it was huge! Biting down the worry and irritation he felt, Lucius made sure she was otherwise all right and called Becky to run a bath for his daughter.

3333

His day didn't improve much; even stealing another rasher of bacon when Demeter wasn't looking didn't prove satisfactory.

As he'd expected, the child was sleepy and merely wanted to return to the nursery with Becky, so he sent her on her way with a kiss and a pat on the backside. He wanted Hermione to come home, so he could share his thoughts with her, but he had to be patient, since she would only return in the early evening. There was work to be done, though, and thus he slowly climbed the stairs to the first floor, summoned a House Elf on his way down the corridor and ordered coffee to be brought to his study.

He'd written and dispatched a few letters and was just busy pondering whether to buy the piece of land adjacent to one of his French vineyards, when one of the farm elves knocked on the door. "Mays Chicky Seven disturb the Master?" it asked, bowing so deeply that its nose touched the carpet.

The farming elves were named after their tasks and numbered. It was a very practical system, even though Meaty Eight was bony and Corny Seven totally devoid of any sentimentality.

"Make it brief, though," he said, "I'm busy."

"Yes, Master. We is worried about the chickens, Master. They is disappearing, always at night."

"How many have you lost?"

"Five, Master. And they isn't eaten by the fox, because we puts up wards, and there is no blood or feathers. They just disappears."

Probably Enzo's fault, Lucius thought. The elves' wards would be useless against a Hippogriff, and he'd just snatch a chicken up and carry it off, so as to devour it in peace. No blood, no feathers. "Put up guards," Lucius ordered, his thoughts already straying back to the vineyards, "and report to me in case of further losses. You may go now."

3333

Demeter had waned and waxed one more time, Hermione had found out that she was pregnant, and suddenly Christmas had arrived.

In the old days, the Malfoys had always thrown lavish Christmas parties, but nowadays Lucius preferred to celebrate en famille, just the three of them and of course Severus Snape, who was not only a colleague and old friend but also Demeter's godfather.

Demeter was allowed to stay up late, so she could have dinner with the adults; at ten-thirty, when Lucius proclaimed (for the third time) that it was time to go to bed, she protested sleepily but let herself be carried of by her father. The adults then reconvened in the library for brandy – one of Severus's gifts to Hermione had been a bottle of amber-coloured potion whose taste was indistinguishable from the aroma of Lucius's finest brandy, but which didn't contain alcohol – and spent a leisurely couple of hours talking and enjoying one another's company.

Severus was still a pretty private, introverted person, but when he'd consumed so much alcohol that Flooing would've resulted in vomiting and Apparating in splinching, he was reasonable enough to accept Lucius's offer of staying the night. Besides he really wanted to be there when Demeter opened her presents – he was the only person she ever accepted books from, and read them, and he had made her a potions textbook with lots of images and easy recipes. A potions kit completed the present.

After their fifth final nightcap, they all toddled off to their respective bedchambers, Lucius supported by a half-laughing, half-scolding Hermione, followed by an insanely grinning Severus, who was trying to walk a straight line to prove that he wasn't drunk at all.

Both Lucius and Hermione were too tired to even contemplate more than a good-night kiss, and drifted off to sleep the moment their heads touched the pillow.

It was still pitch dark, and Lucius's brain was still fogged by alcohol, when the peacefully slumbering spouses were woken by a horrible scream. They sat up, hearts racing, and exchanged one look before saying "Severus!" in unison, upon which they grabbed their wands, scrambled out of bed and raced down the corridor in their nightclothes.

Severus was out of his bedroom, standing with his back against the open door. White-faced and clearly terrified, he looked up and down the corridor.

Lucius snapped his fingers and told a bemused House Elf to bring brandy. "Severus, are you all right?"

Severus merely nodded.

"What happened?" asked Hermione. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"I'm not a child, Hermione," he bit out. "So kindly refrain from-" The elf reappeared with a tumbler of brandy, which he emptied in one go. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bite your head off. There was a snake..." He shuddered and touched the ropey silver scars on his throat. "A snake just like..." He averted his eyes.

"Like... Nagini?" Lucius said, frowning. "How could a ten-foot snake get into the house..."

"It wasn't as big as N-Nagini. Smaller. Shorter." Severus inhaled deeply. "Maybe... maybe three, four feet."

Hermione bit her lip. "Severus, are you sure – I don't mean to imply it was just a dream, I just... Are you sure it was actually there?"

"It fucking touched me! Of course I'm sure!"

"It's okay, Severus, I believe you." Her wand hand was trembling a little but she looked determined. "All right. _Accio_ snake!"

Nothing happened.

Eyes narrowed, Hermione shook her head. "If Severus says it was there, it was there. Let's try something different. Shields up, both of you!" The men did as they were told and watched as she first cast a strong shielding charm around herself, then began to murmur an incantation accompanied by complex wand movements. Both flinched as a befuddled-looking garter snake came slithering down the corridor at high speed, stopped a few feet from them and raised its head to perform an undulating dance.

Severus had just opened his mouth to utter an undoubtedly scathing comment, when Demeter's bedroom door opened and the little girl came running towards them. Lucius caught her in his arms and lifted her up. "What happened?" she said. "I heard... I heard..."

"Shh, darling." Lucius stroked her hair. "Severus had a bad dream."

"I'm sorry," Severus said. "I didn't mean to frighten you. You know I sometimes have nightmares, don't you? I told you about them."

"I wasn't afraid," Demeter objected. "I merely heard... and then I just had to – what's Bruce doing here?" She pointed at the snake. "You're not afraid of Bruce, are you?"

All three adults shook their heads; Severus was careful to avoid his goddaughter's eyes, though.

"Go back to the cellars, Bruce" Demeter commanded. "You want to catch some mice. And don't come up here anymore, you're frightening mum and dad and Severus." The snake twitched its tail playfully and slithered off; Demeter gave a contented sigh and focused her attention on her father. "Can we go open our presents now?"

"It's not morning yet, Demi."

"But you said that I had to go to bed, and when I'd wake up, there'd be presents!"

"Your father meant there'd be presents once you'd wake up in the morning," Hermione pointed out.

"That's not what he said. He said 'when you wake up', I heard him perfectly well!"

Severus, who had evidently recovered from his shock and was observing the exchange with unholy glee, beckoned to Lucius to hand the girl to him. Lucius obliged; he was feeling the beginnings of a dreadful hangover and therefore not entirely sure to win the argument with his daughter.

"I can't go back to sleep right now, either," Severus told Demeter in conspiratorial tones, "So we're going to go down to the kitchens and make cocoa. Then we go back to bed, and we'll sleep till at least ten, so your parents will have to wait for us, because presents can only be opened if we're all there."

"He really does make an excellent nanny," Hermione said, once they climbed back into their bed. "Don't tell him I said that, though, or I'm going to tell him-"

She needn't have worried. Lucius was already asleep.

3333

The Malfoy House Elves still flinched occasionally, when their master made an unexpected movement, but it had been a long time since Lucius last kicked an elf. To himself he justified this fact by the draconian measures his wife had threatened him with, should he ever again abuse one of the little buggers, but in reality he just didn't feel like mistreating anybody or anything, because he was almost obscenely happy. The sight of a terrified House Elf, frightened out of its wits and into nervous spasms, therefore evoked concern – not for the creature itself, but because something extraordinary had to have happened.

He was having breakfast with Hermione – he hated getting up early, but watching her eat more than made up for it – and Demeter was still asleep. The elf that barged into the small dining room as if chased by furies was covered in mud and trembling from head to toe. The mud was easily explained by the rain that had started three days ago and threatened to make February an even more unbearable month than it usually was; that an elf, even a farming one, shouldn't clean up properly, though, before entering the house was nothing short of exceptional.

"Master!" it screeched, "Master, Milky Nine is begging your pardons, Master, but there is a giant snake in the hen house!"

"Bruce isn't a giant snake, Milky Nine," Hermione said. "He's a garter snake, and he won't harm the chickens."

The elf whimpered. "Not Bruce, Mistress, not Bruce! Milky Nine knows Bruce. This snake is being big, Mistress, so big..."

Lucius and Hermione exchanged a worried glance. "Not Bruce? Are you sure?" Lucius asked sharply.

"Sure, Master, yes, Milky Nine is completely sure! Meaty Eight stuns it, and Chicky Seven binds it, and Milky Nine Apparates straight to the house!"

"Very well," Lucius said, getting up. "Let us see the snake, then. I do hope it really is a giant snake, because if it turns out that you interrupted my breakfast because of a Flobberworm, you'll be-"

Hermione cleared her throat.

"...very ashamed of yourself," Lucius ended his sentence, gritting his teeth.

He did glare at Hermione's back, though, when he let her precede him out into the corridor.

3333

"Circe's tits!" Lucius exclaimed, as he entered the hen house and saw the snake immobilized on the ground, bound tightly in shimmering ropes of elf magic and surrounded by determined-looking elves.

"Language, darli – Bugger!" Making an involuntary step backwards, Hermione almost tripped over the hem of her robes. "It's big!"

Lucius nodded. "Not as big as Nagini, though. Severus was right."

"But how could it possibly..."

"I have no idea," he said grimly, "But we're going to find out, aren't we? The bonds will hold if I Ennervate it, right?"

The elves nodded in unison.

"Good." He pointed his wand at the snake. "Ennervate!"

Slowly, lazily, the diamond-patterned coils began to shiver and ripple; the snake raised its head and tested the air with its forked tongue. Then it slowly turned its head to look at each of the elves.

"This is creepy." Hermione gripped Lucius's arm. "Look how it turns its head, almost like a human-"

She couldn't finish her sentence, because the snake started to shimmer and twist, and Lucius flung her behind him with his free hand. She landed painfully on her tailbone; Lucius's robes were blocking her view. "Lucius, what – be careful, for heaven's sake!"

Nothing happened, though; Lucius and the elves were standing transfixed, as if petrified, and for one terrifying moment Hermione thought of the basilisk...

"Mum?" said a small, quivering voice, "Mum, where are you? Are you hurt?"

"Demi?" She looked behind her, but there was nobody there except for a few chickens pecking corn from the wooden floor boards.

Then, suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and she scrambled to her feet, helped by Lucius who had finally come out of his stupor. Rubbing her lower back, she leaned against him for a moment to gather her strength.

"Shalls Chicky Seven remove the bonds from Missy Demi?" the elf piped up.

Lucius merely nodded and went knelt down next to Demeter. "You're an Animagus," he said tonelessly.

Demeter frowned at him. "Mum always says not to call people names."

"Merlin's balls, Demi, why didn't you-"

"She also says swearing is unnecessary and merely shows that you're out of arguments. That's right, mum, isn't it?"

"I think," Hermione said faintly, "that right now both your father and I are out of arguments. So this is an exceptional situation in which swearing may be permissible, within certain limits." She motioned for Lucius to get up and took her daughter's hand; Lucius grasped the other. "I suggest that we go back to the house now and have a little talk. I guess Demi is hungry, aren't you dearest?"

Demeter's face fell. "I meant to eat a chicken," she whispered. "I hate it when I do that, but when I'm a snake, there's nothing I can do about it..."

She started to cry, and Lucius picked her up. "Let's do as your mother suggested, Demi."

"You always" – she hiccoughed – "you always do as mum suggests."

It was testament to his emotional upheaval that he didn't even look back when the elves tittered.

3333

Nothing much remains to be said about the events described above.

With the help of his goddaughter Severus Snape finally overcame his fear of snakes.

Calliope was born the following August; from the moment Demeter was allowed to hold her sister for the first time, the two were inseparable. Most of the time, that is – Calliope was an absolute demon on a broomstick and mortally afraid of any animal larger than a hairbrush.

The story "How Master Lucius Was Put in His Place by Missy Demi" became a favourite among the young elflings.

Demeter eventually found out about her father's Dark past, and how he had become a Good Man. She immediately understood that all Enzo the Ferocious Hippogriff needed in order to become more treatable was a nice lady Hippogriff and some foals. Thus, Lucius added pedigree Hippogriff breeding to his already manifold activities.

At the reception the Granger-Malfoys gave on occasion of their tenth wedding anniversary, Severus fell in love with Narcissa Black, who had been invited at Hermione's insistence. The feeling was mutual. Once again, Lucius had to admit that His Wife Was Always Right.

THE END


	11. Chapter 11

THE DIAGONAL, THE ABYSS, AND THE SPIRAL

In the twenty years of his life, Severus Snape had quite often felt out of place. More often than not, actually.

Never as much as today, though. The overabundance of burgundy velvet, gilt ornaments, chintz and tassels, not to mention mirrors, made him feel like a crow that had accidentally landed in the middle of the Annual Birds of Paradise Carnival Extravaganza.

"Le Talon Rouge" may be the most exclusive shoemaker in wizarding Britain, and if he had more money than wits he might even consider acquiring a pair of dragonhide boots for five thousand galleons; it wouldn't take him two – no, three, he mentally corrected himself after glancing at his watch – hours to decide which pair to buy, though. Well, which pairs. Heaps. An avalanche of shoes.

But that was Narcissa for you.

Suppressing a jaw-unhinging yawn, Severus stared blearily at the blonde witch, who was surrounded by no less than four fawning shop assistants, visibly enjoying the attention that was being lavished on her precious person and giving no signal whatsoever that might have led him to hope that his ordeal was nearing its end.

He sighed. He'd brought it all upon himself, as usual. The chain of causality, if unravelled backwards, led from the shoe shop to Lucius cashing in – with an alacrity wholly unbecoming for a Slytherin; hadn't it been Lucius, the word desperation would've come to mind – the favour Severus owed him, to Severus being grateful and inattentive enough to say that he owed Lucius a favour, to Lucius casting that well-timed, non-verbal Stunner, to Severus almost laughing out loud at yesterday's Death Eater meeting, to their late-night, joint-smoking session in the attic of Malfoy Manor, when...

Come to think of it, it was all Lucius's fault. He'd been the one who'd invited Jean-Christophe, his un-Malfoy-ish-ly shy and awkward, eighteen-year-old French cousin, to stay a few weeks at his ancestral home. To strengthen family ties, allegedly, between the younger generation. Severus had a more than sneaking suspicion that Lucius had merely been bored with his posse of autochthonic admirers and wanted to be admired with a French accent. Besides, he had officially become Lord of The Manor last summer, after his parents had moved to France according to family tradition; not that Severus would ever have mentioned it, but Lucius had seemed a bit lost in the beginning, all on his own in the old pile of stones.

Severus felt a kind of perverse satisfaction at coming to the conclusion that the fault was Lucius's but he, Severus, had to foot the bill. Not Narcissa's shoe bill, fortunately, but having to play chaperone was bad enough. It was also stringent, practically irrefutable proof that the universe was still sticking to its own rules. Considering how the situation with Voldemort was developing, some reassurance was quite welcome.

Trying to blend out Narcissa's cooing and trilling over a creation that seemed to consist of entirely too little leather and too many satin ribbons, he let himself float back to last summer and the sensation of oddly detached bliss he'd felt, sprawled on the dusty wooden floor, flanked by the two cousins.

They could've smoked pot in the Louis XV Salon, had they so chosen. In unspoken agreement they'd trudged up to the attic, though, with their stash of grass and a crate of Lucius's father's favourite Bordeaux – there'd been an element of gleeful vindictiveness to selecting that vintage – and made themselves comfortable. The resinous smell of the huge crossbeams had seemed more pungent, but oddly comforting after his third joint. The sun had gone down already, but the roof was still radiating heat; they'd been sitting in their own bubble of light cast by a few candles, Lucius at his left, so stoned that he was grinning instead of smirking and unable to raise his eyebrows separately, and Jean-Christophe had become uncharacteristically effusive...

ooooooooooo

"Voyons," said Jean-Christophe, stretching his long thin legs, "zis Narcissa of yours, she eez quite a hand luggage, non?"

Lucius rested his head on Severus shoulder, howling with laughter, took a drag on his joint and promptly started to cough.

"She's either quite a handful, or quite a baggage." Severus rolled his eyes. "And yes, she is, as the here-present scion of the Noble House of Malfoy would doubtlessly agree" – he put down his joint and awkwardly reached around Lucius to pat his back – "if he wasn't currently suffocating."

Jean-Christophe nodded thoughtfully. "Yez. She eez so..."

"Shrill?" Severus supplied.

Lucius snorted into his shoulder.

"No, not zat. Well, zat too, but I meant... capricieuse, you know?"

Finally recovered, Lucius sat up again and started playing with the end of the ribbon that was holding his hair in a ponytail. "My fiancée," he muttered, suddenly moody, "is the single most headstrong, unpredictable and, let us say, shallow creature I know. Don't pat my shoulder in this condescending fashion, Sevvie, or I shall feel honour-bound to hex you."

"I was merely trying to express my sympathy, old thing." Severus's joint had gone out, and he relit it.

"I don't need sympathy, I need an accomplice and an alibi! The betrothal is binding – no way to get rid of her except death. Preferably hers."

"I zought," Jean-Christophe said cautiously, "zat you are completely besotted weez 'er."

"As if," Lucius replied glumly. "How is it humanly possible to be besotted with a woman who is constantly hovering below the Bella Diagonal?"

"Ze... I beg your pardon?"

Lucius shrugged and let his head fall back against the wooden beam supporting their backs. "Let's have some more of that wine." He gestured at the dark corner where the now-half-full crate of wine bottles had been put by the House Elves. "And you, Severus, explain."

"If it please Your Splendiferousness." A not-quite-accurate Accio had them all flat on the floor, ducking the dusty painting hurtling towards them. It crashed into far wall, the noise of splintering wood underscored by a stream of obscenities and loud bleating. "Oops. Sorry. Family heirloom?"

"Possibly." Lucius half-turned to look at the wreckage. "None of the ancestors, though. We wouldn't sink so deep as to be painted with sheep."

Fresh joints were lit and the successfully summoned bottle passed around.

"Ze Bella zing?" Jean-Christophe reminded them.

"Oh, that. Lucius has a theory, you see. It basically says that... I think I'll better draw you a diagram." Severus conjured parchment, quill and ink. He had to manoeuvre a bit but finally managed to lie down on his belly. Jean-Christophe was kneeling next to him, swaying slightly. "So, let me see. If the horizontal axis is craziness, and the vertical is hotness, and a woman is exactly as hot as she's crazy, you get this diagonal. Before getting serious about a woman, you first have to make sure she is always above the diagonal."

"_Mais_... zat iz brilliant!" Jean-Christophe stabbed the drawing with his finger. "But 'ow doez zis Bella come into it?"

Lucius blew a smoke ring. "She's Narcissa's sister, and she _is_ the diagonal. And believe me, she's extremely crazy."

"_Zat_ hot?"

"Hotter," Severus confirmed gravely. "Stay away from her though, in case you ever meet her." He vanished the writing paraphernalia with a flick of his wand. "She's out of your league and dangerous to boot. Cast a gelding hex on Avery when he tried to cop a feel."

"Pomfrey had one hell of a time reversing it," Lucius said dreamily.

"Oh." Jean-Christophe sat back down, almost upsetting the wine bottle. "Zere are not many women in my league. My league iz so small, becauze I am 'orribly shy, you know?"

"What, really? You don't say." Lucius's expression of innocence would have shamed a newborn lamb.

"_Mais oui_. Zere are so many zings that could possibly go wrong. _Par exemple_, one of my older inmates-"

"Mates, you mean," Lucius interrupted him. "Unless of course you have two or more tapeworms aged nineteen or older."

"I don't zink so," Jean-Christophe said after giving the caveat serious consideration.

Never one to get his priorities mixed up by things such as tapeworms, Severus poked Jean-Christophe's bony ribcage with his equally bony right elbow. "So what did those mates of yours tell you?"

"May I 'ave ze bottle?" He took a fortifying sip. "Zey told me about the, uh, ze abyss of ze socks."

Lucius leaned forward to glance past Severus at his cousin. ""Are you feeling quite all right?"

"Oh yes, yes. I am feeling perfectly fine."

"So how come you're going on about a sock abyss?" Severus snatched the bottle back and quaffed some more wine. "Come to think of it, the existence of a sock abyss would explain why I always seem to have only one of a pair..."

"That's the House Elves," Lucius said. "It's their idea of revenge, miserable little buggers. Everybody knows that."

"Speak for yourself, you elitist prick. Not everybody's got House Elves."

"But," Jean-Christophe interrupted their budding argument, "it eez not ze socks which are in ze abyss. It's uz."

"How is it us? You, me and Lucius?"

"No, uz men. We fall into ze abyss of ze socks when... _voyons_, you're wiz a beautiful woman, and you are about to get, well, better acquainted..."

Lucius leered. "How much better?"

"Intimately."

"You mean you're going to..." Lucius made a rude gesture.

"Zat, yes." He blushed furiously. "So you need to get naked. And if you are not careful about ze order in which you take off your clozes, you might end up standing in front of zis beautiful woman in nozing but your socks. Zis makes 'er 'esitate, reconsider, you know, because you look _très ridicule_ like zis, and in ze end zere will not be sex. You 'ave fallen into ze abyss of ze socks, _voilà_."

Severus hid his face in his hands. "If this isn't the most outrageously ridiculous theory I've ever heard..."

"Ridiculouz? It eez not a zeory! Ze abyss of ze socks is az real az ze spiral of ze giggles!"

"Lucius, is there any way you can make him stop?"

Lucius Accio-ed and uncorked another bottle of wine and handed it to his cousin with a malicious smile. "Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud, Sevvie. I, for one, am very interested in the, uh, spiral of the giggles." He pulled Severus's hair. "And you're, too, you're just playing coy."

"Merlin help me," Severus moaned. But he raised his head when Lucius tapped his shoulder with the bottle. "All right, all right. By all means, do tell us about the spiral of the giggles, Jean-Christophe."

"Iz eez risky, I warn you. To know about ze spiral is to be part of ze spiral. You cannot escape it, evair."

"I guess we can take it," Severus said drily.

ooooooooooo

They'd had such fun that last summer. Of course they'd been all dignified and aloof about it, following the unwritten but all-important Rule for The Behaviour of Young Males on The Day After: Don't Talk About It. Ever.

Then Jean-Christophe had gone back to France, and they'd joined the Death Eaters, and Lucius had got married to Narcissa.

Taking the Dark Mark had seemed like the coolest thing ever. Lucius's parents would have first disowned and then killed him, had they ever found out, never mind that he was almost twenty-six and married, and Eileen Snape would have thrown a fit. Not to mention Lily Potter. It was secret, it was dangerous and illegal, and all they had to do was show up at the meetings and spout as many inane compliments as they could, the more outlandish the better. On the up side, they had Connections – not that Lucius would've needed them; spiders would have blanched with envy at the web of connections the Malfoys had established over the centuries – and they'd all be part of the new ruling class once the Muggle-born wizards and their lapdogs had been put in their place. In the presence of Junior Death Eaters Voldemort didn't go into details as to what kind of place exactly that was, and neither Lucius nor Severus felt any inclination to ask.

Things had become distinctly less cool when Bella, too, had joined; suddenly Lucius and Severus had the distinct feeling that she was not only watching them, but also reading their minds. They always avoided eye contact with her, and both had begun to study Occlumency with rather more fervour than either cared to admit. Still, the feeling lingered and grew stronger; after the two of them had been sent on their first mission together with Bella and her idiotic paramour Rodolphus Lestrange, they were almost sure that she knew. Knew that afterwards they'd gone and got themselves horribly drunk, knew that they hadn't been celebrating but trying to flush the images from their memory, knew that nothing was cool anymore.

It had been like slowly sliding down a slope that offered no handholds, no way of going anywhere but downwards. Everything was dead serious now. They had to be on their best behaviour. They had to be not only obedient but willing, passionate Death Eaters. With Narcissa pregnant, Lucius had something to lose now. He was as vulnerable as Severus, whose long-coveted Master's degree in Potions was being paid for by the brotherhood. And even though Lily had vilified and betrayed him, Severus didn't want anything to happen to her. They were both bound and gagged; they never talked about it openly, but both knew that the other knew and was feeling the same.

ooooooooooo

It was February and bitter cold. Voldemort had summoned them to a meeting in some creepy, abandoned Muggle fabric; well over a hundred black-clad figures were shivering in the wind that bit into them, unhindered by the broken windows and partly-fallen walls.

Lucius and Severus had been pushed forward by Bellatrix until they stood in the front row, maybe six feet from the dais on which their Master was shortly going to appear. Uncomfortably aware of how exposed he was, and of Bella's crazed black eyes burning holes into his back, Severus stood a little straighter as the enormous, rusty door swung back on creaking hinges to admit Lord Voldemort.

His booted feet made no noise on the concrete floor as he strode to the podium; he mounted the two steps and stood, tall, commanding and in absolute silence. His followers had been quiet while they waited; nobody felt like talking anymore on these occasions. Now, however, it seemed as if time itself had stopped and frozen them all. No rustle of cloth on cloth, no one cleared their throat or breathed audibly, no one shifted their weight from one foot to the other. They were statues.

Severus told himself to empty his mind. To judge by his slightly bent head and shallow breathing, Lucius was doing the same. Too many rebellious thoughts might be revealed through even the most fleeting of eye contacts; if Voldemort probed their minds, as he had done a few times already, nothing must be there for him to see but dedication to the cause and a few harmless memories.

The image of Lucius, Jean-Christophe and himself passing the bottle round, wreathed in blue smoke and laughing, came suddenly and unbidden. Severus tried to push it away, but the brief surge of longing he'd felt had sufficiently chinked his control; the memory attached itself to his mind like a barnacle.

"_Vairy vell. Imagine an occasion, a ceremony of some zort maybe, or a funeral, vair laughing out loud would be ze most 'orrible zing you could possibly do. Ze moment you zink about ze laughing, you also zink about somezing funny, even zough it would not be zat funny if you vair allowed to laugh. But eet iz, becauze you must not laugh, and you almost burst out laughing."_

Voldemort was way crazy, but not hot at all. Definitely not above the Bella Diagonal...

Severus felt laughter bubble up, irresistibly.

"_But you zomehow succeed to, well, push it down, because you must not laugh."_

Severus took a deep breath and concentrated on the tips of his boots peeking out from under the hem of his robes. He visualized the laughter in his mind, imagining a fountain welling up from a round stone basin, and then slowly, gradually losing force until it petered out.

It had been a close shave, but he'd done it. Voldemort had already started to speak, and he hadn't heard one word. This could become dangerous. He went back to looking at the tips of his boots.

"_But of courze zis eez useless, because ze laughter will come back. Only zis second time it 'as joined forces wiz ze first, and eez much stronger."_

If Bella was the diagonal, Voldemort was the horizontal axis. No trace of hotness. Bella probably thought he was hot, though, and wasn't that a tragedy, because how could the diagonal ever reach the axis?

The laughter was upon him before he could brace himself, but with a superhuman effort he held back. He may even be shaking a little; Lucius turned his head a fraction and was probably looking at him worriedly, not that one could tell with the mask.

"_If you are vairy fortunate, you vill beat it a second time. When it comez back for ze zird time, zough, you are doomed... Ze eruption of a volcano will be nothing compared to zis."_

Maybe there was a chance, though, for the star-crossed lovers – the older Bella grew, the crazier she would get, and certainly not hotter, so some time around 2020 the diagonal wouldn't be a diagonal anymore but a downward curve, and then, years later, when Voldemort would already be offering random people lemon sherbets and Bella's hair would be white and so long she tripped over it...

Now he _was_ shaking. And he knew that he had maybe a second before...

Then everything went black.

ooooooooooo

His memories of what had happened afterwards were hazy and somewhat dream-like, due to the strong Confundus charm Lucius had cast on him, so as to send him into a credible delirium. Combined with the heating spell, it had obviously worked a treat; Severus had even received a commendation from the Master, for showing up at the meeting in spite of being delirious with fever.

Lucius had taken him back to Spinner's End – a nice, collateral bonus that. Voldemort's speeches were as long as they were boring.

A House Elf had been summoned from the Manor with a basket of food and a few bottles of wine; the two of them had settled down in front of the fireplace to get some much-needed warmth. The first bottle was consumed in silence.

The awareness that he'd have to thank Lucius made Severus quite uncomfortable – his lapse of self-control was weighing heavily enough already, but acknowledging that he'd been in need of help really rankled. If he was completely truthful with himself, he had to admit, though only in the privacy of his own mind, that Lucius had probably saved his life. Certainly his sanity, because they'd seen Voldemort torture people into a frothing, babbling mess for lesser offences.

It had to be done, and sooner rather than later. He didn't want to carry the knowledge of being in Lucius's debt around with him any longer than absolutely necessary. "I, erm, suppose I have to thank you. That Confundus charm was a stroke of brilliance."

Now Lucius was probably preening, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of actually looking. Severus reached for the second bottle and opened it.

"Yes," Lucius said, holding out his glass, "I quite agree. Would you care to tell me what exactly happened? Did Bella cast a Cheering charm on you?"

"I wish she had. No, it was my own fault – remember Jean-Christophe and the spiral of giggles? It came back to me while I was preparing to Occlude, and I didn't stand a chance."

"Apparently not." Lucius put his glass down and grabbed Severus's elbow. "You know that this must never happen again, don't you? I won't always be there to save you, and-"

"Feel free to stop being patronizing right now," Severus snarled. "All right, yes, you helped me, and I owe you, even big time, but..."

Lucius smiled enigmatically.

Severus felt he'd just made a rather significant mistake. A distraction had to be found, and fortunately there was one diversion that always worked. Mentioning the imminent arrival of the most important baby of the century and whatever was related to this pivotal event was always sure to get Lucius's undivided attention. "Let us talk about more pleasant things. How's Narcissa?"

"That's what you call pleasant?" Lucius topped up his glass. "She's huge. Her mood swings have become completely unpredictable, and her cravings... Tomorrow she wants to go shoe shopping. Eight months pregnant, feet like a troll's, and she wants to go shoe shopping. The outcome is predictable. I shudder at the mere thought."

Severus made what may or may not have passed for a sympathetic noise. "Do you have to accompany her?"

"Of course. She always wants company, because throwing tantrums is just so much more fun if she has an audience... Come to think of it, you owe me a favour, don't you?"

He was doomed.

ooooooooooo

If there was a hell, and if he'd have to go there, Severus was sure that at some point he'd have to deal with pregnant women buying shoes.

He hoped, however, that by the time he went to hell one simple but important rule would be burned so deeply into his mind that it would transcend death: Watch out for mood swings.

He shouldn't have let himself daydream. Had he been on his guard, he might have stood a chance.

On the bright side, though,

-Now he knew that, if wielded with sufficient determination, a stiletto heel was able to pierce robes, trousers and a quadriceps. His own, unfortunately.

-He had discharged his debt to Lucius

-Now Lucius owed him, because physical injury hadn't been part of the deal

-He knew that the Spiral of Giggles was real. He merely had to find a way of throwing it into a conversation with, say, Bella.

THE END

A/N: I pilfered the "Bella Diagonal" from "How I Met Your Mother" - it's Barney Stinson's theory, and he calls it the Vicky Mendoza Diagonal. Both the Sock Gap and the Giggle Loop belong to the first season of "Coupling"; they're products of Geoffrey's somewhat paranoid imagination. Jean-Christophe is my own.


End file.
